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^ 9 





September, 1903 — February, 1904. 

"/ am a Bookman." — ^James Russell Lowell 



Fifth Avenue and 35TH Strket 

Copyright, 1903, by Dodd, Mead and Company 
All Rights ResenveJ 


September, 1903 — February, 1904. 



Actor, and the Empress (Chronicle) 584 Booth. Maud Ballington. "After Prison — 

Adcock. A. St. John. Review of "The Long Whatr' : 645 

Night" 418 "Boss, The. and how he came to rule^New 

"Adventures of Gerard, The." Conan Doyle 808 York." Alfred Henry Lewis 486 

"After Prison— What T' Maud Ballington "Brazen Calf. The" (Chronicle) 2 

Booth 645 Britons at School (Chronicle) 852 

Alciphron. Harry Thurston Peck 504'^ BrOchner, Jessie. Henrik Ibsen 180 

Alfleri and Louise, Countess of Albany. Brown, Alice. "Judgment" 802 

Frederick Paronelli 272 Bruce, H. Addington. Educative FHmctlon 

Alfieri to Louise (Poem) 272 of Empirical Psychology 189 

"Alice In Wonderland," Poems in. Florence Burton. Richard. Review of "History of 

Milner IS American Literature" 414 

Allen. James Lane. "The Mettle of the Byron, Lord. New Poem by 71 

Pasture" 78 "CaU of the Wild. The." Jack London 159 

American Undergraduate Dramatics. L. "Candida" (Chronicle) 598 

Guernsey Price 873 Caricature, History of the Nineteenth Cen- 

Andrews, Charlton. Resources of Mycroft tury. Part VII 86 

Holmes 865 Casamajor, George H. Review of "Life of 

"Anne Carmel." Gwendolen Overton 160 Voltaire" 416 

Atherton, Gertrude. Some Truths About " " Review of "Remi- 

American Readers 658 niscences of an 

Author's Side of the Case (Chronicle) Astronomer" .. 541 

233, 348. 479. 591 "Cherry." Booth Tarkington 666 

Baffling Cipher. A (Chronicle) 115 "Children of Men." Bruno Lesslng 419 

Ballade of Dead Sellers (Poem). Reginald Christmas Comedy, A. Mary Moss 898 

W. Kauffman 657 Colbron. Grace Isabel. Review of "Katharine 

Ballade of Sour Grapes (Poem). Wallace Frensham" 654 

Irwin 599 " " " Review of "The Yel- 

Ballade of Story-Book Land (Poem). Caro- low Van" 649 

13m Wells 889 Colby, Frank Moore. Doubts of a Dramatic 

"Bar Sinister. The" (Chronicle) 240 Critic 608 

Barker. Elsa. The Man (Poem) 897 " " " Drama of the Month 

Recompense (Poem) 70 816. 363, 514 

Beauty in the Bookman Office (Chronicle) .. 841 -|- " " " The Literary Tem- 

Berlloz Centenary (Chronicle) 469 perament 486 

Be Sweethearts Now As Then (Poem). " " " The Reading Public. 805 

George N. Lowe 106 " " " The Scheduled Novel 86 

"Blbl M." Sketch of (CJhronicle) 127 Coleman, A. I. du P. The Prophecy of 

Bjorkman. Edwin. Article on George Saint Malachy 80 

Gissing 600 Coleman. John. "Charles Reade as I Knew 

"Blowlti. M. de. Memoirs of 296 Him" ISS* 

Bonner, Geraldlne. "Tomorrow's Tangle".. 309 Colonel Carter Reappears (Chronicle) 854 

Bookman's Letter-Box 430, 548T" Confessions of a Literary Quill-Driver, The. 

Book Mart, The 107. 216. 319, 439. 557. 678 Eugene L. Didler 186 

"Book of the Short Story." Jessup and Conrad, Joseph. "Falk" 809 

Canby 642 Consolations of a Minor Quill Driver. Mary 

«0(A8 of the Day 164. 296. 414. 637. 641 Moss 606 

^ooks. The Best Semng.112. 224, 886, 464, 576, 688 Continental Fiction in England (Chronicle). 846 





Cooper, Frederic Taber. The Historical 

Novel and Some 
Recent Books... 618 
History of the Nine- 
teenth Century 
In Caricature. 

Part VII 86 

•• " Local Colour and 

Some Recent * 

Novels 408 

Novelist's Omnis- 
cience and some 
Recent Books. . . 530 
Review of "A Deal 

in Wheat" 309 

•• " •• Review of "The 

Edge of Things" 309 
Review of "Falk".. 309 
Review of "House 

on the Sands".. 309 
Review of "A Se- 
quence in 

Hearts" 309 

Review of "Tomor- 
row's Tangle".. 309 
■ " " The Single Idea and 

Some Recent 

Books 162 

The Sustained Ef- 
fort and Some 
Recent Novels.. 309 
Copyrighting of Plays. The. Elizabeth Mc- 
cracken 83 

Critic Makes a Discovery (Chronicle) 225 

Day Betwixt, A (Poem). Charles Woodward 

Hutson 34 

"Deal in Wheat, A." Frank Norris 309 

Dejeuner d, la Fourchette (Chronicle) 5 

Department Store in Fiction (Chronicle).... 2 
Didier, Eugene L. The Confessions of a 

Literary QuiU-Drivcr 136 

District Attorney, The. Churchill Williams. 290 

Dixon, Thomas. "The One Woman" 161 

Dobson, Austin. "Fanny Bumey" 641 

Doubts of a Dramatic Critic. Frank Moore 

Colby 603 

Doyle, Conan. "The Adventures of Gerard" 303 
Drama of the Month. Frank Moore Colby 

315, 363, 514 
Du Bols, Bessie. Review of "The Law of 

Life" 300 

Duncan, Norman. "The Way of the Sea".. 270 

"Edge of Things, The." Ella W. Peattle 309 

Educational Balloons In Fiction (Chronicle) 577 
Educative Function of Empirical Psychol- 
ogy. H. Addlngton Bruce 189 

Egbert, James C, Jr. Review of "Satires of 

Juvenal" 539 

Ebrposer of Municipal Corruption (Chronicle) 247 

"Falk." Joseph Conrad 309 

Family Affair, A (Chronicle) 115 

Famous French Comic Papers, Some 

(Chronicle) *. 8 

"Fanny Bumey." Austin Dobson 641 

Farjeon. B. L., Sketch of (Chronicle) 1 

Finis (Poem). <3eorge Mlddleton 522 

Ford, Mary K. Review of "Rebecca of Sun- 

nybrook Farm" 652 

"Forest, The." Stewart Edward White 299 

"Forest Hearth, A." Charles Major 419 

Forsslund, Louise. Friends 168 


Fowler. Frank. Review of "The Work of 

John S. Sargent" 6S7 

Fox. John. "The Little Shepherd of King- 
dom Come" 158 

Friends. Louise Forsslund 168 

Camett, Richard. Review of "Fanny 

Bumey" 641 

Gissing, George, Article on. Edwin BJork- 

man 600 

Godwin, Parke. Sketch of (Chronicle) 578 

"Gossip from Paris" (Chronicle) 682 

Greatest Feat of Magic Ever Performed 

(Chronicle) 124 

Gypsies. The (Poem). Richard Hovey 522 

Hale, Edward Everett. "We. the People".. 644 
Hale, Louise Closser. Venezuela and Kings- 
ley's "Westward Ho!" 129 

Hamel. F. Scenes of Mrs. Humphry Ward's 

Novels 144 

Hamilton, Clayton. Review of "Book of the 

Short Story" 642 

Harraden, Beiltrice. "Katharine Frensham" 664 

Hazleton, George C, Jr 611 

Henley, William Ernest, Some Reminis- 
cences of 817 

Here and There. New York Election. 

Harry Thurston Peck 484-^ 

Hilda and the Wishes. Harry Thurston 
Peck 390. 628 

Hill, Frederick Trevor, Reports (Chronicle) 591 

"The Web" 650 

Hind, Lewis. Sketch of (Chronicle) 231 

Historical Novel and Some Recent Books. 
The. Frederic Taber Cooper 618 

"History of American Literature." William 
P. Trent 414 

History of the Nineteenth Century in Cari- 
cature. Part VII. Arthur Bartlett 
Maurice and Frederic Taber Cooper. ... 36 

Holmes (Mycroft), Resources of. Charlton 

Andrews 365 

Hopkins, Herbert M. The Rain (Poem) 252 

'The Torch" 651 

Houdin, Robert (Chronicle) 124 

"House on the Sands, The." Charles Mar- 
riott 309 

Hovey, Richard. The Gypsies (Poem) 522 

Huckel, Oliver. "Wagner's Parsifal" 154 

Hutson, Charles Woodward. A Day Be- 
twixt (Poem) 34 

Hyne, Cutliffe. "McTodd" 270 

Ibsen. Henrlk. Jessie Brttchner 180 

Irwin, Wallace. Ballade of Sour Grapes 

(Poem) 599 

" " The Quest of the Local 

Colour (Poem.) 407 

Isaacs, Lewis M. Music Season in New York. 494 

Review of "Wagner's Par- 
sifal" 164 

Journalism. New School of. Lincoln Steffens 173 

"Judgment." Alice Brown 302 

"Katharine Frensham." Beatrice Harraden 654 

(Chronicle) 240 

Kauffman. Reginald W. The Ballade of 

Dead Sellers (Poem) 057 

Kildare, Owen. Story of (Chronicle) 245 

"King of the Humbugs. The" (Poem). Lord 

Byron 73 

Kipling. Rudyard. Poet. Harry Thurston 
Peck 307 



Language Reftorm in Japan (Chronicle) 4€6 

"Law of Life, The." Anna McClure Sholl. . . SOO 

Lecky, W. E. H., Sketch of (Chronicle) S38 

Leasing, Bruno. "Children of Men'* 419 

Sketch of (Chronicle) 468 

Lewis, Alfred Henry. "The Boss, and how 

he came to rule New York" 486 

"Lii^tning Conductor," Sketch of its Au- 
thors (Chronicle) S26 

Literary "Impossibilities" (Chronicle) 121 

Literary Paris. Reminiscences of (Chronicle) 682 

Literary Pseudonyms (Chronicle) 2S6 

Literary Quotation (Chronicle) 698 

Literary Temperament, The. Frank Moore 

Colby 486 

"Little Mary" (Chronicle) 696 

"Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come. The." 

John Fox 168 

Local Colour and Some Recent Novels. Fred- 
eric Taber Cooper 408 

London, Jack. "The Call of the Wild" 169 

"The People of the Abyss". 647 

"Long Night, The." Stanley Weyman 418 

Loomis, Chas. Battell. A Plot for a Story . . 192 
Lowe, George N. Be Sweethearts Now As 

Then (Poem) 106 

McCracken, Elizabeth. The Copyrighting 

of Plays 8S 

McCutcheon, George Barr. "The Sherrods" 

(SeHal) 87, 196 

"McTodd." Cutliffe Hyne 270 

Major, Charles. "A Forest Hearth" 419 

Man, The (Poem). Elsa Barker 897 

Mandeville, F. M. Review of Anne (far- 
mer* 160 

Review of "A Forest 

Hearth" 419 

Marriott. Charles. "The House on the Sands" 309 
Marsh. Edward Clark. Review of "The One 

Woman" 161 

Review of "The 
People of the 

Abyss" 647 

Matthews, Brander, According to (Chronicle) 477 

A Note on Guy de Mau- 
passant 171 

Maupassant. Guy de. Note on. Brander 
Matthews 171 

Bfaurice. Arthur Bartlett. History of the 

Century In 
Part Vn.. 86 

•• •• " Review of "The 

of Gerard". 303 

•• •* " Review of "The 

Call of the 
Wild" 169 

•• •• " Reviewof 

"Memoirs of 

Itz" 296 

Bfay. Phil, Sketch of (Chronicle) 7 

MelviHe, Lewis. Review of "Charles Reade 

as I Knew Him" 166 

Men of the Sea, The. Stewart Edward White 270 
Menpes Family (Chronicle) 116 

Merriman, Henry Seton. Sketch of (Chron- 
icle) 477 


"Mettle of the Paature. The." JamM Lane Allen 78 
Meyer, Annie Nathan. "A Poor Thing But 

Mine Own" 610 

Middleton. George. Finis (Poem) 622 

Midinettes, Lea (Chronicle) 470 

Miller, Joe. Poem on James Whitcomb Riley 849 

"MUls of Man. The." PhiUp Payne 666 

Milner. Florence. The Poems In "Alice In 

Wonderland" IS 

Moffett. Cleveland (Chronicle) 476 

Mommsen. Theodor. Sketch of (Chronicle).. 846 

Moore. Isabel. William Butler Yeats 860 

Morley Gladstone, The (Chronicle) 240 

"Morris. Robert" (Chronicle) 6 

Moss. Mary. A Christmas Comedy 398 

The Consolations of a Minor 

Quill Driver 606 

A Sequence in Hearts" 809 

Review of "Judgment" 802 

Review of "The Mettle of the 

Pasture" 78 

Sketch of (Chronicle) 226 

Music Season in New York. Lewis M. Isaacs 494 

Mysterious Card, The (Chronicle) 476 

Nelson. Charles Alexander. University and 

Public Libraries 608 

Newcomb, Simon. "Reminiscences of an 

Astronomer" 641 

New York Election. Harry Thurston Peck. 484 

Norris. Frank. "A Deal in Wheat" 309 

Novelist's Omniscience and Some Recent 

Books. Frederic Taber Cooper 630 

Oberholtzer. Ellis P., Sketch of (Chronicle). 6 

October (Poem). Carolyn Wells 163 

"One Woman, The." Thomas Dixon 161 

Osborne, Duffleld. Review of "The Little 

Shepherd of King- 
dom Come" 168 

Review of "The Mills 

of Bian" 666 

Our Poets Write for Syndicates (Poem). 

Clarence Urmy 143 

Overton, Gwendolen. "Anne Carmel" 160 

Paronelli, Frederick. Alfleri and Louise. 

Countess of Albany 272 

"Parsifal." Oliver Huckel 164 

Payne, Philip. "The Mills of Man" 666 

Peat, A. B. N. "Gossip from Paris" (Chron- 
icle) 682 

Peattie, Ella W. "The Edge of Things".... 309 

Sketch of (Chronicle).... 230 

Peck, Harry Thurston. Alciphron 604 

Henry Watterson.. 636 V 
Here and There.... 434 
Hilda and the 

Wishes 390. 623 

New York Election 434 
Review of "Children 

of Men" 419 

Review of '"The 

Five Nations". 307 ^-''^ 

"People of the Abyss." Jack London 647 

Plagiarising One's Own (Chronicle) 689 

Plays, Cop3rrlghtlng of. Elisabeth Mc- 

Chracken 83 

Plot for a Story. A. Charles Battell Loomis 192 
"Poor Thing But Mine Own. A." Annie 

Nathan Meyer 610 

Porter. William Harley. A Shield Reversed. 638 

Through Walled 

Windows 26 



Precursor of Omar (Chronicle) 116 

Price, L. Guernsey. American Undergradu- 
ate Dramatics S7S 

Prison Journalism 281 

Profession of Publicist (Chronicle) 478 

Prophecy of Saint Malachy, The. A. I. du 

P. Coleman 80 

Puritan Pilflrim's Progress (Chronicle) 244 

Quest of the Local Colour, The (Poem). 

Wallace Irwin 407 

Raffles (Chronicle) 466 

Rain. The (Poem). Herbert M. Hopkins 262 

"Reade (Charles) as I Knew Him." John 

Coleman 166 

"Reade's (Charles) Opinion of Himself and 

His Opinion of George Eliot 262 

Readers' Guide to Books Received. 

107, 216. 319. 439. 667. 678 
Reading Public. The. Frank Moore Colby . . 306 

Real Evangeline, The. H. L. Sayler 17 

Real Mr. Barnes of New York (Chronicle) . . 690 

Real Wyndham Kid (Chronicle) 240 

"Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm." Kate 

Douglas Wiggin 662 

Recent Plays and the "Literary Quality" 

(Chronicle) 694 

Redpe for Certain Society Fiction (Poem). 

Arthur Stringer 484 

Recompense (Poem). Elsa Barker 70 

"Reminiscences of an Astronomer." Simon 

Newcomb 641 

Resources of Mycroft Holmes. Charlton 

Andrews 866 

Revelation of Herself, The (Serial). Mary 

Farley Sanborn 2G0. 421. 647. 660 

Revising Dead Authors (Chronicle) 480 

Riley, I. Woodbridge. Review of "We, the 

People" 644 

Riley, James Whitcomb, Poem on 349 

Rowland, Henry C. "Sea Scamps" 270 

Royalty in Paris (Chronicle) 470 

Russian Americans (Chronicle) 468 

Salisbury (Lord) as Journalist (Chronicle). 118 

"Salt, Mr." (Chronicle) 1 

Sanborn, Mary Farley. The Revelation of 

Herself (Serial) 260, 421, 647, 660 

Sargent, John S., Work of 637 

"Satires of Juvenal, The." Harry Langford 

Wilson 639 

Savage, R. H., Sketch of (Chronicle) 339 

Sayler, H. L. The Real Evangeline 17 

Scenes of Mrs. Humphry Ward's Novels. 

F. Hamel 144 

Scheduled Novel, The. PYank Moore Colby. 36 

"Sea Scamps." Henry C. Rowland 270 

"Sequence in Hearts, A." Mary Moss 809 

Shaw, Bernard. "Candida" (Chronicle) 698 

"Sherrods. The" (Serial). George Barr Mc- 

Cutcheon 87, 196 

Shield Reversed, A. William Harley Porter. 638 
Sholl, Anna McClure. "The Law of Life".. 300 
Single Idea and Some Recent Books, The. 

Frederic Taber Cooper 162 

Smoking Room in Fact and Fiction (Chron- 
icle) 9 

Some Truths About American Readers. 

Gertrude Atherton 668 

Southern Woman in New York, The. Julia 

R. Tutwiler 624 

[ Stark, Beverley. Review of "Cherry" 656 

Steffens, Lincoln. The New School of Jour- 
nalism 178 

Sketch of (Chronicle)... 847 
Stringer, Arthur. A Recipe for Certain So- 
ciety Fiction (Poem) 484 
The Threadbare Theme 

(Poem) 168 

Successful Fiction of 1903 (Chronicle) 481 

"Sweet Kitty Bellairs" (Chronicle) 698 

Swiss Pension of John Percyfleld (Chronicle) 842 

Tale Once Told, A (Chronicle) 474 

Tallentyre, S. G. "Life of Voltaire" 416 

Tarkington, Booth. "Cherry" 666 

Teall, Gardner C. Whistler and Swinburne. 69 
Threadbare Theme, The (Poem). Arthur 

Stringer 168 

Through Walled Windows. William Harley 

Porter ' 26 

"Tomorrow's Tangle." Geraldine Bonner... 809 

"Torch, The." Herbert M. Hopkins 661 

Townsend, E. W. D^Jeimer k la Fourchette 

(Chronicle) 6 

Trent, William P. "History of American 

Literature" 414 

Tutwiler, Julia R. The Southern Woman 

in New York 624 

Undergraduate Dramatics. L. Guernsey Price 878 
Underwood, John Curtis. A Vision of Truth 

(Poem) 16 

University and Public Libraries. Charles 

A. Nelson 608 

Urmy, Clarence. Our Poets Write for Syn- 
dicates (Poem) 143 

Use of Quoted French (Chronicle) 680 

Vandam, Albert Dresden, Sketch of (Chron- 
icle) 337 

Venezuela and Kingsley's "Westward Ho!" 

Louise Closser Hale 129 

Vision of Truth. A (Poem). John Curtis 

Underwood 16 

"Voltaire. Life of." S. G. Tallentyre 416 

Wagner and the Grail Legend. W. E. Walter 499 
Walter, W. E. Wagner and the Grail Legend 499 
Ward, Mrs. Humphry, Scenes of Novels of. 

F. Hamel 144 

Watterson (Col.) on Compromises (Chron- 
icle) 226 

Watterson, Henry. Harry Thurston Peck.. 636 
"Way of the Sea. The." Norman Duncan.. 270 
"We, the People." Edward Everett Hale... 644 

"Web, The." Frederick Trevor Hill 660 

Wells, Carolyn. Ballade of Story- Book Land 

(Poem) 389 

October (Poem) 163 

Weyman, Stanley. "The Long Night" 418 

Whistler and Swinburne. Gardner C. Teall. 69 

White, Stewart Edward. "The Forest" 299 

latest Trail of 

(Chronicle) ... 230 
The Men of the Sea 270 
Review of "M c - 

Todd" 270 

Review of "Sea 

Scamps" 270 

Review of "The 
Way of the 

Sea" 270 

Truthful Fisher- 
man (Chronicle) 476 
Whiteing, Richard. "The Yellow Van" 649 




WlKsln, Kate Douglas. "Rebecca of Sunny- 
brook Farm" 662 

WiUiams, Churchill. The District Attorney. 290 

•• " Review of "The For- 
est" 299 

Review of "The Web" 660 

Wilson, Harry Langford. "Satires of Juve- 
nal" 689 


Wood, John Sesrmour. Alfred Henry Ijewis. 486 

Review of "The Boss 
and how he came 
to rule New 

York" 486 

Word Snobbishness (Chronicle) 2 

Yeats, William Butler. Isabel Moore 860 

"Yellow Van, The." Richard Whitelng 649 

"Zut." Guy Wetmore Carryl (Chronicle)... 680 


Alfleri , 274 

" Bedroom of 279 

Palace of 273. 276 

Statue of 277 

American Undergraduate Dramatics.... 377 — 888 

Banks, Nancy Huston 631 

Barr, Robert 681 

Barrie, J. M < 693 

Beauty, Types of 842 

BeUew, Kyrle, as "Raffles" 467 

Berlioz. Hector 470 

"Bibi M." 127 

Bisland, Elisabeth 627 

" " Drawinsr Room of 628 

Bispham, O. T 380 

Block, Rudolph 469 

Boothby, Guy 128 

"Boyce. Neith" 466 

"Braaen Calf, The." Poster of 2 

Brehm, George, Caricatures by, 

237. 849, 686. 687, 688 

Brown, Anna Robeson 127 

Burgess, Prof 178 

Butler, President 178 

"Candida." Scene from the play 597 

Caricatures of Nineteenth Century. Part 

Vn. Through the End of the Century. 36—68 

Carpenter. Prof 179 

Carryl, Guy Wetmore 680 

Caruso, Enrico 496 

Closser, Louise, as "Prossie" 697 

Colonne, Eklouard 494 

Columbia College Varsity Show 384 

Columbia University Library 613 

Committee of New School of Journalism at 

Columbia 178, 179 

Cornell Students in "L' Anglais tel qu'on le 

parle." etc 387, 388 

Cornell University Library 610 

Couch, A. T. Quiller 688 

Dailey, Peter, as "Waffles" 596 

Deeping, Warwick 682 

Deland, Margaret 341 

Home of 340 

Dempster, Robeter Ledger 387 

Dickens, Charles, Birthplace of 230 

Dix, Beulah Marie 119 

Dix, Eulabie 632 

Dobson, Austin 677 

Donnellb^, Dorothy, as "Candida" 697 

Eclipse, L* 11 

EUiott. Sarah BamwelL 632 

E>rangeline, The Real 17—24 

First Poster of La Carlcaturo, 1880 8 

Ford, Emily Van Duser 882 

Ford, James L 2 

Giddings, Prof 178 

Gillam, Bernard 48 

Gillette, William -. 614 

Gissing, George 600 

Gladstone Family 241 

Godwin, Parke 678, 679 

Greek Open Air Theatre, University of Cali- 
fornia 886 

Hale, Edward Everett 684 

Hale, Walter. Drawings by 129—184 

Hapgood, Mrs. Hutchins 466 

Harvard University Library 609 

Hasty Pudding Club House at Harvard 879 

Hazleton, George C, Jr 613 

Heraldic Assembly of America 114 

Heustis, Miss 629 

Hind, Lewis 231 

Hobson, Miss Ann 369 

Holland. E. M.. as "Captain Bedford" 467 

Howe, M. A. De Wolfe 868 

Hyde Seeking His Den 868 

Ibsen. Henrik 180. 184 

" " Birthplace and late homes of 

181, 188 

" Statues of 182 

Impression of the author of "Autobiography 

of Seventy Years" 692 

Impressions of Some Literary Hoosiers. 

George Brehm 686 — 688 

Jerome. Jerome K 864 

"John Percyfleld," Scenes of 848 

Keppler. Joseph 43 

Latest Trail of Stewart Edward White.. 228. 229 
Laying the Foundation Stone of the Maison 
de Retraite Pour les Artistes Dramat- 
iques et Lyriques at Pont au Dames, 

near Paris 6 

Leaves from a Barn-Stormer's Sketch-Book. 

Ryan Walker 401 — 406 

Lecky. W. E. H 838 

Leonard. Melaine Elizabeth. Drawing by.. 162 

"Lessing. Bruno" 469 

Lewis. Alfred Henry 489 

Loomis, Charles Battell 118 

Louise, Countess of Albany 276 

Medallion of 277 

McCutcheon. George Barr, Caricature of.... 287 

Major. Charles, Caricature of 688 

"Man from Blanklejr's." Scene from the 

play 247 

Mann. Louis, in "Waffles" 696 

Mannering. Mary 696 

"Marriage of Kitty, The," Scene from 616 

Mask and Wig Club of the University of 

Pennsylvania 888 

Mason, Caroline Atwood S 




MattlMWB, B»lld«r. 179 

May. PhU 7 

'* Caricature by 126 

Menpea, Dorothy 116 

Menpaa, Maud 116 

Menpaa. Mortimer 117 

"Merely Mary Ann," Scene from 618 

Mldinettea of Parte 472. 47S 

Mommaan, Theodor S47 

Moaa, Mary 226 

Mottl. Felix 49B 

"Mullah of Miaama," Scene from S81 

Munaon. Edgar 887 

Mu86e Philipon 11 

"New Leaf and Good Reaolutions for 1904." 

Caricature 646 

Novel-Makhigr up to date 128 

Oberholtser, Ellis P 6 

October 162 

Parla Correspondents of the European and 

American Press 282 

Paris Punch, 1860 9 

Parisienne. La Vie 10 

Parodie. La 12 

Paul. Herbert 281 

Payne. Will 1 

Peattie. Mrs. Elia W 227 

Peck, Harry Thurston 179 

Pi Eta Society of Harvard 877 

Pilgrim's Progress. Illustrations from. .248— 246 

Power, Tjrrone 242 

"Pretty Sister of Jos6, The," Scene from... 616 

Princeton University Library 616 

Prison Journalism. Facsimiles, editorial 

rooms, etc 281—290 

"Q" 683 

Remarkable Exhibit of Books owned by fa- 
mous personages 366 — 867 

Riley, James Whitcomb, Cartoon of 349 

Roseboro*. Viola 626 

Salia. Andre lai 

SaUabury, Lord 

Savage, R. H 

Shaw, George Bernard. Caricature of 

"Something Like a Novelist." Caricature.. 

Spencer. Herbert 4T1 

StefFana, Lincoln 

Stuart, Ruth MoEnery 

Sturges, Beatrice CST 

"Sweet Kitty Bellalrs." Scene from the play WH 

Tarkington, Booth, Caricature of St7 

"Trelawny of the Wella." cast of aa given 

by Smith College Students 8SS 

University of Virginia Library €14 

Valentine, Elisabeth tSI 

Vandam, Albert Dresden t87 

Veneiuela and Kingaley's "Weetward-Ho!" 

129— U4 

Walker. Ryan, Caricature by 646, 69S 

Leaves from a Bam-Storm- 
er's 8ketch-Book....40l— 4M 

Wallace, Lew, Caricature of S88 

Ward. Mrs. Humphry i4i 

Scenes of her Novete 

Watterson, Henry 

Wetmore, Mrs 

" Home of 

White. Stewart Edward. Latest Trail of .138, 

"Whitewashing of Julia," Scene from 617 

Wiehe, Madame ISO 

in "La Poupee" fl9 

Wiggin, Kate Douglas 4 

Williams, Martha McCulloch 686 

Williamson, C. N. and A. M 227 

Women's Press Club of Tennessee 144 

Wright, Mrs. Mabel Osgood 364 

Yale Dramatic Association 178, 179 

Yale Libraries 611 

Yeats, William Butler , 860 




No. 1. 





PrieeZS Cents $ Z.OO per y^av. 







1 otlhD lOlk Rnnlun in Ratlnnhlffi IhinnDtV KlP.M C^%l^«S)SE\. 


c>4. Magazine of Literature and Life 

MeauscTipts submittid te The Bookman ibould be addressed to "The Editeri ef The Bookman." 
Manuscripts sent t« litber of the Editors personally are liable to be mislaid or lest. (J GC (J 


The Late B. L. Ftujeon 

B, L. Farjeon, the English novelist, 
who died late in July, was a very indus- 
trious disciple of Charles Dickens, and a 
writer of some talent. His early career 
was somewhat changeable and adventur- 
ous, in great contrast to the steady, peace- 
ful routine of his later life. He went out 
to Australia, and became engaged as a 
newspaper man. attaining considerable 
success, having a share in his paper, as 
well as the editorship. But he greatly 
preferred imaginative work to the dull 
routine of journalism, and he was for- 
tunate enough to obtain the praise and 
friendship of Dickens. Thus encouraged, 
he returned to England, and began as a 
novelist. At first he had considerable 
success, in particular with his Christmas 
stories. He worked on diligently to the 
end, but though always acceptable to a 
large circle of readers, his popularity was 
not maintained. Mr. Farjeon set himself 
indomitably to meet the circumstances. 
Probably no novelist in London worked 
harder than he. His work-day was in- 
credibly long, and all of it filled with toil. 
It would be interesting to know the exact 
number of words he turned out in a 
year. The great thing is that he was 
happy in his work. He did not whine, 
and he found his pleasure in his task. 
Mr. Farjeon was a man of the highest 
character, and he was greatly sustained in 
his labour by the brightness and affection 
of his home. His wife was a daughter 
of Joseph Jefferson. Mr. Farjeon once 
had the curious experience of meeting one 
of his own stones printed without altera- 
tion except that the title was changed and 
the author's name— to that of a woman. 

eTWr. Salt 

A story which we are awaiting with 
some interest and curiosity is Mr. Will 
Payne's Mr. Sail, which, like his former 
books, is to deal with business and Chi- 
cago. While The Story of Eva and On 
Fortune's Road were not entirely satis- 





"He Littnrjr SI)o?," "Hjpootk Tkkj,' 

ment store in Au Bonhcur dcs Dames, 
just as lie made the markets the central 
idea in Lc J'oitrc dc Paris, the grog shop 
iti L'Assomoir. and the Bourse in L' Ar- 
dent. Mr. Harkins takes as the theme of 
The Scliemcrs an American department 
store. We should have hkcd to have seen 
what Mr. Will Payne, who wrote The 
Story of Eva. could have done along 
these lines. 

factory, they were books far above the 
average in every way, and suggested very 
large possibilities in their anthor. Bo we 
shall take up Mr. Salt, with the hope 
that these possibilities have been realized. 
According to the pnblishers' announce- 
ment, "success in business and in love is 
the keynote of this story." Mr. Salt be- 
longs to the robust race of men to whom 
life is a great game. The outward action 
of the story moves through the cycle of 
hard times beginning with 1893, when it 
was a fight to maintain the trust, to the 
time of the high tide of industrial pros- 
perity. "The action includes some stir- 
ring occurrences of 'the Street' during the 
panic, some of the quieter but not less 
activities inside of a big bank, and the 
formation of a trust." 

The Department Store in Fiction 

A good many American writers have 
attempted to follow in Zola's footsteps, 
and in all but a few cases these attempts 
have resulted in ignominious failure. The 
late Mr. Frank Norris came about as 
near to success as any, and with The Oc- 
topus he gave us what was at least a very 
passable imitation. But Mr. Norris had 
saturated himself with Zola before he be- 
gan to write, whereas others confine 
themselves to imitating him merely 
along the broad lines. For instance, it is 
nothing but the general idea that suggests 
Zola in Mr. K. F. Harkins' The Schem- 
^£rs. Zola described the Paris depart- 

The Brazen Calf 

Among the autumn publications there 
is to be a book called The Braces Calf, in 
which Mr. James L. l''ord, who is best 
known as the author of The Literary 
Shop, aims to satirise the society columns 
of the yellow journals, and the people 
who read them and believe in them with 
snobbish enthusiasm. The first poster 
design for the purj>osc of advertising the 
book on the news stands was the one 
which we herewith present. We fear 
that while Mr. Ford undoubtedly pos- 
sesses a sense of the humorous, he is just 
a little bit lacking when it comes to a 
sense of humour. For some reason or 
other he did not seem to appreciate this 
poster at all. In fact, he objected forcibly, 
and .said it wouldn't do. 

Word Snobbishness 
A writer for one of the magazines 
complains that accuracy in the use of 
words has given liim more trouble than 
the thing is worth. lie says there are 
many words which it is unsafe to use 
correctly,^ — unsafe in fact, to use at all.— 
because they "have liccn marked with the 
red flag of <langer." by compilers of books 
on words and their uses, and people 
think there must be something the mat- 
ter with them. He writes too timidly for 
so good a cause. ?Ic should have said 
that there is a large class of persons who 
are fairly eaten up with word- snobbish- 


ness, apostles of petrifaction, who hate to angels brought us tt^ther. These inno- 
see the language grow, mere insects of cent, unproclaimed triumphs make the 
style, who insist that "To-morrow will be heart of man beat faster, and it is often 

Tuesday," and say "Cannot you." Many 
a man's entire being is wrapped up in a 
few pet accuracies of diction; he thinks 
they are the whole of "culture." Many 
a man looks as complacent when he says 
"literatyoor" as a naked Zulu in a high 

an act of kindness to use bad English to 
your neighbour just to give him a glow. 
We once made a party of Englishmen 
happy for a week, merely by deliberately 
mispronouncing a word or two in every 
sentence, thus giving them enough 



hat. We all have our word prejudices, "Americanisms' 

and on no accoiuit should we part with Rut some of 

them, for they add to the zest of life. We scions of our 

cling to some small propriety as much as nold said we 

to say by this sign ye shall know me. Fifth Avenue. 

You say, "His success was phenomenal." faces contrast 

and I sneer. I say, "T'aint either," and taking. Style 

you chuckle. And we each feel pleased dom of word 

and superior, which, no doubt, is why the placidly with 

" to last their whole lives. 
ns have grown as con- 
words as Matthew Ar- 
were of our clothes on 
As some men write, their 
with the pains they are 
to them is a martyr- 
etiquette. Better to eat 
a knife than to strug- 


gle horribly in public against doing so, 
and an occasional tumble in print is far 
pleasanter to see than the mincing steps 
of the verbal parvenu. Most of the dis- 
cussions over words arise from the ner- 

Some one had referred to the "conduct 
of a newspaper." Do you mean the be- 
haviour of a newspaper? said he. "A 
strange case," said another, and he im- 
mediately asked if he meant a strange 


vousness of the suddenly educated. They 
are scared by the richness of the lan- 
guage. A man once wrote a paper re- 
buking all verbal ambiguities, even the 
most innocent and long-established. 

crate or package ; and so he went on, say- 
ing, finally that he had a note-book full 
of other instances, equally flagrant which 
he would some day give to the world. 
And there are many like him — zealots of 


systematic illiteracy, disinhcritors of 
words, slaves of a haif-savage punctilio, 
a sort of shabby, foot-note, literary gen- 
tility that gives them no peace. Not that 
we care how much tliey suffer or what 
becomes of them. No doubt the mad- 
houses are full of demoniacs who mutter 
"Was I graduated" or "Did 1 graduate," 
and rend their flesh. No doubt there are 

Dejeuner i la Fourchette 
The following communication from 
Mr. Edward \V. Townsend needs no com- 
ment : 
To the Editors of "The Bookman." 

Gentlemen : I am disposed to biame 
Mr. Herman Knickerbocker Viele for so 
long concealing from the public certain 
information he seems to possess relating 

M, NKAIt HAlltK. 

tsof Coqnelin iiloi< 

Bn<l M Waldeck- 

dreadfid scenes when the deathbed holds 
thcni in their last parenthesis and the last 
rattling sentence breaks off liideously in 
aposiopcsis or leaves a preiiositicm at the 
end. It is notJiing lo us. Our sole con- 
cern is the welfare of the others — the peo- 
ple who do not write to the newspapers 
to find out whether the>- were born "in" 
or "at" : minds that have never yet de- 
bated "She married him— he married 

to Itroakfast. Xow that he has consented 
to enlighten the sul)ject, I rejoice none the 
less that, hy way of a start, he has ex- 
posed my ignorance. The matter is of 
enough importance, aside from the inci- 
dent of my eclipse, to justify a warning; 
and in [his I am willing to picture myself 
— and Joseph, and Frederic — in the char- 
acter of terriltlc examples, Mr.\'iele,in his 
review nf my novelette,.45iMHiHCr in A'lty 
I'l"/-, ill the .\ugust. BooKM.\N, wrote: 


"Alice is introduced at Claremont to 
'such a breakfast as we used to have at 
Paris,* and — shades of Le Grand Vatel t 
— the repast begins with Petite Mar- 

One evening in Paris, while dining at 
Joseph's, that inspired chef with his own 
hands, and in the presence of the diners, 
prepared for me a course which he de- 
scribed on the signed menu I still cherish. 


as "La sole a Breteuil with osters." Jo- 
seph had been in this country for a time 
presiding over the cuisine of a Vander- 
bilt, before he returned to Paris and 
opened the Restaurant de Marivaux, and 
was proud of his English— hence "os- 
ters." After dinner Joseph invited me to 
breakfast at noon on the following day, 
I had an engagement, but Joseph insisted, 
"Because," said he, and the pride in his 
eyes would have made Mr. Viele's de- 
spair, "because, for to-morrow's break- 
fast I shall prepare the pclite marmilc 
myself!" Poor Joseph! I am glad that 
he passed to a better place than even 
Paris before I had been exposed by Mr. 
Vieie. In Paris, also, I sometimes break- 

fasted at Frederic's, which, as Mr. Vieli 
knows, is at the sign of La Tour d'Ar- 
gent, 15 Quai de la Tournelle. I noted 
that on a certain day of the week there 
breakfasted there several men whom 
Paris — still groping in mists of ignorance 
which Mr. Viele should long ago have 
dispelled — thought well of as boHs vi- 
vaiits. "Why," 1 inquired, "do these men 
make a habit of breakfasting here on this 
day?" "Because," answered Frederic of 
the side whiskers, proudly, "onthis day the 
petite marmite is of a grand excellence." 
Mr. Viete summons the shade of Le 
Grand Vatel to bear witness to my igno- 
rance, and I therefore am led to wonder 
if the cause of Vatel's suicide has been 
correctly slated in history. Is it likely 
that because the chef of the Prince of 
Conde did not have enough fish for break- 
fast he threw himself upon his sword? 
Has not Mr. Viele exclusive information 
that Vatel died because he did not have 
enough doughnuts to serve Louis XIV. 
at dejeuner d la fourchette? 

Edward W. Townsend. 

Robert Moiris ; Statesman and Financier 

Dr. Ellis P. Oberholtzer's Robert Mor- 
ris: Patriot and Financier will be a biog- 
raphy of one of the great men of the 
Revolution and the early days of the 
United States. Morris has been compar- 
atively neglected by historians and biog- 
raphers. Of late a good deal of new ma- 
terial about him, in the form of a larg; 
mass of unpublished and unused corre- 
spondence, has come to light. With its 
aid Dr. Oberholtzer has been enabled to 
write his biography. The author is a 
Philadelphian of considerable exi>erience 
in historical research, who has devoted a 
good deai of time to collecting informa- 
tion from various sources about the ca- 
reer of his subject. 

A portion of this new material is de- 
rived from sixteen manuscript volumes 
of papers which were acquired by the 
Library of Congress from the John Mere- 
dith Read estate. The adventures of 
these manuscript volumes would almost 
make a romance ; the point at present is 
that they have been at length rescued 
from obscurity and put to their proper 
use. Of these sixteen volumes, three 
comprise Morris' official diary. The 


entries extend from February 7, 1781, to 
September 30, 1784, and embrace bis entire 
termofofficeas Superintendent of Finance. 
The next seven volumes are his official 
letter books, covering about the same 
period. The next three volumes are pri- 
vate letter books, and two others contain 
official copies of the journals of Con- 
gress; while the last is a transcript of the 
accounts rendered to Congress by Beau- 
marchais. It seems probable that this 
biography of the man who brought the 
budding country through its financial 
straits will rouse fresh interest in a man 
whose splendid services have been al- 
lowed to suffer undeserved neglect. 

The L»te PhU ^pVtay 

The death of Phil May was not only 
a serious loss to English comic art ; it 
was an unexpected loss, for the artist 
was not yet forty years of age. It was 
different in the case of Du Maurier, 
whose successor May became in the pages 
of Punch, for when the author of Trilby 
died it was after long years of yeoman 
service to British humour ; and while his 
loss was universally regretted, it was 
felt that he had done all of his ]xst work, 
both with his pencil and with his pen. 
To Phil May, however, we had looked 
for twenty-five or thirty years more of 
varied achievement. Born in Leeds, in 
1864, after a brief schooling he was ap- 
prenticed to a lawyer, but he did not stay 
there very long, joining a theatrical com- 
pany, to which he was excee<lingly useful 
as a designer of posters. Then he mar- 
ried and went to Australia to work -for 
the Sydney BnUelln. On his return he 
speedily won recognition in London, do- 
ing work tor the Graphic Sketch and 
other perioilicals until finally hi.s sketches 
began appearing in London Punch and 
in February. 1895, he was invited to take 
his seat at the famous Punch table. 
After Mr. du Maurier's death in 1896, 
Phil May became Punch's leading artist 
in social pictorial satire. Yet it was a 
far cry from the Relgravia and Bohemia 
in which dn Maurier found his inspira- 
tion to the East End types among which 
May's best work was done. His publica- 
tions include Phil May's Gutter Snipes, 

from which the accompanying illustra- 
tion is reproduced, and Phil May's 
Sketch Book, which contained many of 
his drawings for Punch and Black and 




Some Famous French Comic Papers 

We believe that it will be news to most 
people that there was at one time a Paris 
Punch modelletl on the lines of the fa- 
mous London Weekly. Such a paper, 
however, had a brief existence, and how 
closely it resembled the publication 
founded by Mark Lemon will be seen 
from the accompanying reproduction of 

over the Nain Jaune of the reign of Louis 
XVIIL we come to the famous La Cari- 
caliire, which played such a part in the 
reign of Louis PhilHpe. Established in 
1830, and suppressed in 1835, La Carica- 
ture did much to stimulate pictorial 
satire. It was admirably edited by Phil- 
poen ; it ha<l Balzac as a writer on its 
staff; and among the eminent artists it 




l>CiTkilm|niUiinp>r>n 104 jLiAugrtpbki •nmapiilD ncJIpon ArttSD l>u oMB. 
a*|ai BuvAi m «n^ 'inaJnibiiilltgiul^i>^um>iJclC>rr>lim:nf>raKU italk 

V",l"" ' t,' 
On s'aBtmyxe a pans 




its cover. Punch a Paris was illustrated 
by no less an artist than Cham. Six num- 
bers were printed, beginning in February, 
1850, and ending in June of the same 

Punch d Paris naturally suggests the 
subject of the comic weekly in a country 
where it has flourished so well. Passing 

employed were Daumier, Grandville, 
Henry Monnier, David, Wattier, Pigal, 
and Travies. The illustration which we 
present is a reproduction of the poster 
of this paper's first number in 1830. L'E- 
clipsc, which was founded early in 1868, 
suspended publication from September, 
1870. until June, 1871, But during these 
nine months of national disaster the jour- 


nal issued five supplementary sheets with 
drawings by Gill. The old L'EcUpse 
ceased to exist in June, 1876, and in July 
of the same year the later L' Eclipse came 
into existence. Among comic papers 
which have been associated with the 
name of some individual artist were : The 
Musee Philipon, published in 1842; La 
Parodie, which bore the name of Andre 
Gill on the cover; the Parisian comic 
journal, the most widely circulated out- 
side of France. La Vie Parisiennc was 
established in 1863. Its first director was 
Marcelin. Grand-Carterct in his impor- 
tant work. "Les Mtrurs ct la Caricature 
€11 France," refers to this journal as "the 
most important, the best conceived, the 
best executed of journals of worldy fan- 
tasy and light illustrations — light in the 
spirit of good society, and, above all, in 
the note of the Second Empire. 
Tlie Smoking Room in Fact and Fiction 

Last month we were discussing at some 
length the subject of the sea in fiction 
and the admirable treatment which the 
man before the mast has received in re- 
cent fiction. Now since the forecastle is 
receiving so much discriminate atten- 
tion is it quite fair that another side 
of life on ihe ocean, that dealing with 
those pcr.sons to whom Kipling's dour 
Scotch engineer, MacAndrews, refers 
contemptuously as "them first-class pas- 
sengers," should be entirely ignored ? The 
sailors in tlie rigging and the stokers 
down at the mouths of the furnaces may 
lead more exhausting and exciting lives, 
but is there not a little bit of romance to 
be fonnd in the dining saloon, on the 
promenade deck and in the smoking- 
room? Occasionally a novelist brings in 
an ocean greyhound as the background 
for a deck-chair courtship, but the sea 
really lias nothing more to <lo with the 
matter than if the game were being 
played out at Trouville or Narragansett. 
Typical books of this kind were Marion 
Crawford's Dr. Claudius and Richard 
Harding Davis's The Princess Aline. 
Mr. Davis brought in a real touch of the 
sea in the last chapter of Soldicrx of For- 
tune, but it is a side of life which is par- 
ticularly suited to hi.s method of work, 
and one of which he has not made 
nearly enough use; so, after all, there 
remains only Mr. Kipling to whom one 

may turn for a glimpse of the adventur- 
ous in the lives of the passengers, and 
even then it is but a glimpse confined to 
A Matter of Fact which deals with 
three journalists on a tramp steamer in 
the South Atlantic, a few tales about 
Hans Breitnian and the opening chapter 
of Captains Courageous. 

The first chapter of Captains Coura- 
geous stands at present as the most com- 
plete picture of the smoking room of an 
ocean liner that has yet been shown in 
fiction, and any one who has ever spent 
many hours of an ocean voyage in that 
part of the vessel must have immediately 
been struck by the absolute and happy ac- 

riNCH, 1850. 

curacy of the types of its frequenters. 
There were so many true touches in so 
brief a space that one felt instinctively 
that it was only Mr. Kipling who could 
have done it. Harvey Cheyne was by no 
means an essential of the picture, al- 
though there is hardly an ocean trip but 
what sonic badly disciplined American 
child of one sex nr the other will bo found 
to thrust himself or herself noisily in, 
but who does not recognise the stout ( itr- 
man who gave Harvey the big black 
cigar? Turning again to the Iwnk we 
arc amazed to find that so little of him 



has been put down in cold type, for we 
certainly know him as well as if we had 
spent six hours a day in his company dur- 
ing a eight day trip. He is in business 
some where in Brazil or one of the other 
South American Republics ; he has 
crossed the Atlantic thirty odd times and 
the Pacific four or five ; he can teli you 
off-hand about the hotel accommodations 
in Singapore and the best way to estab- 

Over in another corner of the smoking 
room, his head covered with a nautical 
cap of wondrous design, is "Pa," who 
may be briefly described as the husband 
of "Ma." "Pa" does not spend a great 
deal of time in the smoking room ; in fact, 
he looks upon the place, its atmosphere, 
its card playing, and its fondness for 
sherry and bitters and Scotch soda, with 
an eye of stern disfavour. It is the first 

lish railway connections between Calcutta 
and Bombay. And above all he does not 
realise that he is travelling; somehow he 
looks upon all this globe trotting in the 
same spirit that the commuter regards his 
morning and evening journey, in which 
respect he differs very much from the 
gentleman opposite who is taking his first 
trip abroad, who hails from Evanston, 
111., and who will genially impart that 
Formation wherever he may go in Eu- 

time that he and "Ma" have ventured to 
cross what they call "the big pond," and 
for months they have been labouring un- 
der tremendous excitement. Two weeks 
later you will perhaps run across him in 
the smoking-room of some London hotel. 
They have already done the Trossacs, 
Edinburgh, and the English cathedral 
towns, and lacking "Ma's" iron will and 
determination to take in everything, he is 
tired of sight-seeing and yearning for 


home. He has cornered the smoking- 
room waiter and is explaining to him, en- 
thusiastically how they work the Volun- 
teer Fire Department in his native town 
in America. The waiter is saying "Yes, 
sir ; yes sir ; quite so. sir !" and stmgpling 
to escape. "Pa" does not realise this ; he 
is human ; he is lonely, and he belongs to 
that certain class of Americans of which 
more experienced compatriots cannot al- 
ways be proud abroad. On the ship "Pa" 
and "Ma" insist on sitting at the Cap- 
tain's table, right next to the Captain. 
At every meal throughout the voyage 
they ply the genial officer as to the prices 
of the various hotels in Europe. They 
are astonished and disappointed beyond 
measure at his lack of specific knowledge. 
"Pa's" belief in the iniquity of this 
portion of the ship becomes positive con- 
viction as he looks sternly across the 
room to a corner where two gentlemen 
are dozing uneasily. In a few minutes 
they will awake and will immediately 
touch the electric button that calls the 
smoking-room steward who will bring 
them more whiskey and soda, of which 
they have already had a little too much. 
Thqr will generously invite every one in 

the smoking-room to join them, and will 
beam amiably on "Pa," utterly oblivious 
of that worthy's disapproval. Despite 
lappea ranees they are not the hardened 
reprobates that one might imagine. They 
are simply, at too late an age, making 
their first trip abroad. In his own town 
at home each is a worthy, respected, and 
industrious citizen ; but this is a new ex- 
perience to them, and it has somehow got 
into their heads that it is to be accom- 
panied by an entire upheaval of estab- 
lished habits. A common friend brought 
them tt^ether just before the beginning 
of the voyage and they decided to share 
the same stateroom. If you will believe 
either of them implicitly you will reach 
the conclusion that neither has been thor- 
oughly satisfied with the arrangement. 
Each will take you aside confidentially, 
refer apologetically to the other as "the 
old fellow," deplore in hazy accents the 
other's fondness for tippling, and charac- 
terise his behaviour in general as "dis- 
graceful," Each will assure you twenty 
times a day that he never knew the other 
before this trip. Nevertheless they will 
beam at each other for hours every day 
over their glasses, each will play on the 




other countless practical jokes, and to- 
morrow morning eacli will take yoii aside 
confidentially and tell you of the trouble 
he had getting the other to bed the night 
before. The London that they will see 
will be the Criterion American bar ; their 
knowledge of Paris will be confined to 
Henri's with a hazy evening at a cafe 
chantant, and another in company with 
a guide interprete, with an account of 
which on their return they will regale 
their friends to the end of their days. 

The farce element is there, and the 
tragic element is not lacking. There is 
nothing in the demeanour of that wizened 
yellow Brazilian who is forever rolling 
cigarettes dexterously with his trembling 
fingers that leads you to suppose that in 
his head there is the certain knowledge 
that thirty days hence he shall have 
ceased to live. But coldly, impassively, 
he has just imparted that fact together 
with the story of his life to a compatriot. 
Inheriting a great fortune at an early age 
he rushed into vice and dissipation with 
the evil precocity of the South American, 
and after fifteen years of lavish and hide- 
ous debauch had found himself shattered 
in body and with but a pittance of his 
great fortune left. One day, about three 
weeks ago, he felt a strange thumping in 

his chest, and went to his physician. The 
physician examined him with a face of 
darkening gravity, and then bluntly told 
him that he had less than two months to 
live, and that there was no power on earth 
that could save him. The Brazilian took 
the news calmly, and sat down to ponder 
the matter over. He found that he 
had just enough money left to take him 
to Paris and to live there for one month 
in that shameless depravity which he had 
come fo love so well. His mind was in- 
stantly made up. He had to die; he 
would die in the manner he would have 
liked to live, surrounded by those scenes 
which appealed to the evil which was 
paramount in his nature and which alone 
could stir his jaded imagination. 

There is nothing about the smoking- 
room of an ocean liner that should sug- 
gest Mr. Henry James' Daisy Miller — be- 
yond the fact that we recently re-read 
that book in such a place — and yet the 
two together start us wondering why no 
American novelist of recent years has 
seriously taken up as a theme the idea of 
the New Americans Abroad. Now Daisy 
Miller was all right. It belonged to a 
period when all Americans abroad were 
supposed to be eccentric and rich. Amer- 
ican men were thought by Europeans to 
be all Hirams and Joshuas and when they 
crossed the water in search of their 
spouses and daughters they delighted Eu- 
ropeans by their lavishness and their 
manner of saying "I reckon," "you bet," 
and "to hum." This type has given way 
to another which is much less popular, 
and if Miss Daisy Miller is still to be 
found along the shores of Lake Geneva 
or about the Colosseum by moonlight, all 
we can say is that she is a very much 
changed young lady. Europeans have 
ceased to associate us with Ihe ideas of 
vast wealth and eccentricity; and unfor- 
tunately have bad too much occasion to 
think of us in connection with dishonest 
and undisciplined American jockeys, the 
schemes of wily American confidence 
men, and the successes of American mil- 
lionaires who have pitted their rouleaux 
against the bank of Monte Carlo. Of 
course this charge is unjust, but it is sug- 
gestive. It is a certain phase of the new 
Ar'crican abroad. 




Fifty years ago the child world was 
made glad by the appearance of Lewis 
Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. It is a 
universal story and so belongs to all time. 
It has never gone out of fashion and 
never will as long as children love won- 
der-stories and grown-ups have young 

But those who read the book when it 
was first published found in it a delight 
which the child of to-day misses. Fifty 
years ago certain poems appeared in 
every reader and were read over and over 
again until the child was stupid indeed 
who did not unconsciously learn them by 
heart. To-day there is a new fashion in 
literature. Children are whirled from 
one supplementary reader to another, 
conning graceful rhymes and pretty 
stories all illustrated with artistic pic- 
tures, but the old tilings have passed 

All the poems in Alice in Wonderland 
are parodies upon these once familiar 
rhymes. Scattered lines of the poems 
cling to the minds of older people; they 
remember being once familiar with them ; 
they recognise the metre and can some- 
times repeat two or three opening lines, 
but the complete poem eludes them, and 
the author they probably never did know. 
The childrerk of to-day do not know the 
verses at all. and as a parody ceases to be 
a parody without the original poem as a 
background, the trouble of gathering 
these originals seems worth while.. 

After Alice had fallen down the rabbit 
hole and had passed through her first 
transformation, when she shut up like 
a telescope until she was only ten inches 
high and then grew bigger and bigger 
until **her head struck the roof of the 
hall," she became confused as to her iden- 
tity.* To make sure of it she tried to re- 
peat a little poem which everybody in 
those days knew by heart, and to such 
children it was very funny when it came 
all wrong and she says, 

"How doth the little crocodile 
Improve his shining tail," 

when she thought she was repeating that 
highly moral poem by Isaac Watts, 


How doth the little busy bee 
Improve each shining hour. 

And gather honey all the day 
From every opening flower! 

How skilfully she builds her cell! 

How neat she spreads the wax! 
And labours hard to store it well 

With the sweet food she makes. 

In works of labour or of skill, 

I would be busy too; 
For Satan finds some mischief still 

For idle hands to do. 

In books, or work, or healthful play. 
Let my first years be passed, 

That I may give for every day 
Some good account at last. 

Again, in her conversation with the 
Caterpillar, Alice told him that being so 
many diflfercnt sizes in a day was very 
confusing, as he would find when he 
changed into a chrysalis and then into a 
butterfly. She confessed that she could 
not remember things and told her experi- 
ence with "How doth the little busy bee." 
The Caterpillar, wishing to test the mat- 
ter, ordered her to say, "You are old, 
father William." How well she suc- 
ceeded will appear from comparing what 
she said with what she thought she was 
going to say. 


"You arc old, father William/' the young man 
"The few locks that are left you are grey; 
You are hale, father William, a hearty old 
Now tell me the reason, I pray." 

"In the days of my youth," father William 
"I remember *d that youth would fly fast, 
And abus'd not my health and my vigour at 
That I never might need them at last' 






You arc old, father William," the young man 


"And pleasures with youth pass away. 
And yet you lament not the days that are 
Now tell me the reason, I pray." 

"In the days of my youth," father William 

"I remember'd that youth could not last; 
I thought of the future whatever I did. 

That I never might grieve for the past." 

**You are old, father William," the young man 
"And life must be hastening away; 
You are cheerful and love to converse upon 
death ; 
Now tell me the reason, I pray." 

"I am cheerful, young man," father William 
"Let the cause thy attention engage; 
In the days of my youth I remember'd my 
And he hath not forgotten my age." 

Robert Southey. 

The Duchess's song to the pig baby, 

"Speak roughly to your little boy 
And beat him when he sneezes," 

is an absurdity in itself, but a much great- 
er one when contrasted with its serious 
parallel. There is evidently some uncer- 
tainty as to the author of this poem, for it 
occasionally appears as anonymous, but 
is generally credited as below. 


Speak gently; it is better far 
• To rule by love than fear; 
Speak gently; let no harsh word mar 
The good we may do here. 

Speak gently to the little child; 

Its love be sure to gain ; 
Teach it in accents soft and mild; 

It may not long remain. 

Speak gently to the young; for they 

Will have enough to bear; 
Pass through this life as best they may, 

Tis full of anxious care. 

Speak gently to the aged one, 
Grieve not the care-worn heart; 

Whose sands of life are nearly run. 
Let such in peace depart. 

Speak gently, kindly to the poor; 

Let no harsh tone be heard; 
They have enough they must endure, 

Without an unkind word. 

Speak gently to the erring; know 
They must have toiled in vain ; 

Perchance unkindness made them so; 
Oh, win them back again. 

Speak gently; Love doth whisper low 
The vows that true hearts bind. 

And gently Friendship's accents flow; 
Affection's voice is kind. 

Speak gently; 'tis a little thing 
Dropped in the heart's deep well; 

The good, the joy, that it may bring. 
Eternity shall tell. 

G. W. Lancford. 

"Twinkle, twinkle, little bat," which 
the Hatter said that he sang at the con- 
cert given by the Queen of Hearts, is the 
most familiarly suggestive of them all. 

Jane and Ann Taylor were two Eng- 
lish sisters who wrote together, publish- 
ing their poems under such titles as 
"Original Poems for Infant Minds" and 
"Hymns for Infant Minds." Jane was 
supposed to have written most of them, 
and this one carries her signature. 


Twinkle, twinkle, little star, 
How I wonder what you arel 
Up above the world so high. 
Like a diamond in the sky. 

When the blazing sun is gone. 
When he nothing shines upon. 
Then you show your little light. 
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. 

Then the traveller in the dark 
Thanks you for your tiny spark: 
He could not see which way to go. 
If you did not twinkle so. 

In the dark blue sky you keep. 
And often through my curtains peep, 
For you never shut your eye 
Till the sun is in the sky. 

As your bright and tiny spark 
Lights the traveller in the dark, 
Though I know not what you are, 
Twinkle, twinkle, little star. 

Jane Taylor. 

Mary Howitt wrote "The Spider and 
the Fly," the first stanza of which orig- 
inally read, 

"Will you walk into my parlour?" said the 

spider to the fly, 
" Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you 

did spy. 


The way into my parlour is up a winding stair. 
And I've got many curious things to show 

when you are there." 
"Oh, no, no," said the little fly, "to ask me 

is in vain, 
For who goes up your winding stair can 

ne'er come down again." 

This poem has suffered various modi- 
fications and several versions appear in 
print, but the quoted stanza is doubtless 
from the original one. The beat of the 
metre is very perfectly kept in the Mock 
Turtle's "Will you walk a little faster?" 

" Tis the voice of the lobster" which 
Alice repeats at the gruff order of the 
gryphon, returns to Isaac Watts. Prob- 
ably no poem in the book is further re- 
moved from modern thought and modem 
literary ideals than this one. 


*Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him 

"You have wak'd me too soon, I must 

slumber again." 
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed. 
Turns his sides and his shoulders and his 

heavy head. 

"A little more sleep, and a little more 

Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours 

without number, 
And wh'en he gets up, he sits folding his 

Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he 


I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild brier, 
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and 

The clothes that hung on him are turning 

to rags; 
And his money still wastes till he starves 

or he begs. 

I made him a visit, still hoping to And 
That he took better care for improving his 

He told me his dreams, talked of eating and 

But he scarce reads his Bible, and never 

loves thinking. 

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson 

for me: 
This man's but a picture of what I might be: 
But thanks to my friends for tl1|^ir care in 

my breeding. 
Who taught me betimes to love working 

and reading." 

"Beautiful Soup" is a very funny par- 
ody upon a popular song of the time and 
runs as follows : 


Beautiful star in heav'n so bright, 
Softly falls thy silv'ry light, 
As thou movest from earth afar. 
Star of the evening, beautiful star. 

Chorus : 

Beautiful star, 
Beautiful star, 
Star of the evening, beautiful star. 

In Fancy's eye thou seem'st to say. 
Follow me, come from earth away. 
Upward thy spirit's pinions try. 
To realms of love beyond the sky. 

Shine on, oh star of love divine. 
And may our soul's affection twine 
Around thee as thou movest afar, 
Star of the twilight, beautiful star. 

James M. Sayle. 

The most delightful part of the parody 
is the division of the words in the refrain 
in imitation of the approved method of 
singing the song, with its holds and its 
sentimental stress upon the last word. 

Beau — ootiful Soo — oop! 
"Beau — ootiful Soo — oop! 

Soo — oop of the e — e — evening, 
Beautiful, beauti— FUL SOUP!" 

The poem upon which the last parody 
is based is not as well known as most of 
the others, the first two lines being the 
only ones often quoted. 


She's all my fancy painted her, she's lovely, 

she's divine. 
But her heart it is another's, she never can 

be mine. 
Yet loved I as man never loved, a love 

without decay. 
Oh, my heart, my heart is breaking for the 

love of Alice Gray. 

Her dark brown hair is braided o'er a brow 

of spotless white, 
Her soft blue eye now languishes, now 

flashes with delight; 
Her hair is braided not for me, the eye is 

turned away. 
Yet my heart, my heart is breaking for the 

love of Alice Gray. 

I've sunk beneath the summer's sun, and 

trembled in the blast. 
But my pilgrimage is nearly done, the 

weary conflict's past; 
And when the green sod wraps my grave, 

may pity haply say. 
Oh, his heart, his heart is broken for the 

love of Alice Gray! 

William Mee. 


Carroll's first writing followed the 
wording in the original first stanza and 

"She's all my fancy painted him 

(1 make no idie boasi); 
If he or you had lost a limb. 

Which would have suffered most?" 

But for some unknown reason he 
dropped the first stanza, beginning with 
the second, thus obliterating all evident 
resemblance between parody and orig- 

The parody is not the highest form of 
wit and not the most skilful form of 
verse, but Lewis Carroll has done these 
eight so well that doubtless some of them 
will live after the originals are forgotten. 
Even now, in order to search them out, it 
has been necessary to beat the dust from 
many a forgotten volume in a library's 
unmolested corners, but the nonsense 
rhymes they suggested are jingling upon 
the tongues of children the wide world 
over and mingling with their happy 

Florence Milner. 


Truth stood upon the border of her well, 
Naked she was, her cloud of sunlit hair 
Caught the warm rays that kissed her shoulder bare. 

And passed caressing downward to her feet. 
Most still she stood, her body flushed and fair, 

Her head was bowed, her lips, surpassing sweet. 

Smiled softly as the sunshine round Iter fell. 

In the cool water she is mirrored clear. 

There shines the blue unclouded of the skies 
Deep in the heaven of her downcast eyes. 

Its very likeness, rarer far is seen. 
And where the ripple on the water lies, 

Around her close the walk of tender green, 

And trembling clasp her, living warm and dear. 

And he who sought her saw the wondrous light 
That round her glows and stayed his slep.s in awe. 
And while the perfect vision raft he saw, 

A mist arose wherein she .slowly sank. 

Nor might he to his arms her beauty draw. 

Yet of the living water deep he drank. 

And still in dreams she stands before him bright. 

John Cnrlis U mlcrzvood. 


The completeness with which the spell 
of Longfellow's "Evangeline" has faffen 
on a large part of the Bayou Tcche coun- 
try in Louisiana is an illustration of how 
a people may rise to an ideal. With no 
direct knowledge of the conntry.or of the 
bayou that figures so prominently in the 
poem, Mr. Longfellow yet framed a 
number of sonorous and apt descriptive 
generalities that are now more often used 
than the real facts. Stranger yet, the fic- 

blankets or "Evangeline" portieres, and 
antique buyers from New Orleans never 
fail lo dub quaint desks and chairs 
"Evangeline." A few citizens will even 

point out the old plantation where the 
\XK-t was entertained when he visited this 

Although (here is nothing to show that 
IjDngfellnw was ever in Louisiana, his 
description of the Tcche and the Atcha- 
falaya lakes was not builded altogether 




tion of the poem has almost become a re- 
ality. At the very mouth of the Teche 
"Evangeline" oaks are pointed out. In 
the town of St. Martinvillc are more 
"Evangeline" trees. In the same town 
the site of the home of 'iJasil the Black- 
smith" is fixed near an oak hearing his 
name. The village priest does not hesi- 
tate to say that he can no longer show 
you "Evangeline's grave," because the 
rebuilding of the old Acadian church for- 
ty years ago extended a corner of it over 
the tomb. 

Throughout the country', in the yet 
extensive Acadian settlements, the'Evan- 
geline" sentiment is as pronounced. 
Weavers of homespun like to des- 
ignate their products as "Evangeline" 

on fancy. There is reason to believe that 
his knowledge of the region came from a 
well-known citizen of that State. There 
is even more reason to believe that he was 
told at the same time the story out of 
which came the poem itself : not the story 
as he told it, but the tale of the "real 

One of the honoured names in Louisi- 
ana history is that of .-Mcxandcr Mouton, 
Ciovemor of the .State in 1842 and a 
I'niled States Senator subsequently, 
Governor Moulon was an Acadian and 
was horn in the Teche country. His 
nephew is now a prominent citizen of the 
town of New Ilwria, and this gentleman 
has no hesitancy in saying that Senator 
Mouton, while in the East, met and be- 


came the intimate friend of Longfellow. 
Senator Mouton was a scholar of taste, 
and particularly felicitous in descriptive 
writing. In him the story of the exiled 
Acadian was a part of his family history. 
His grandmother, an exile herself, had 
come as a girl to Louisiana, and out of 
her participation in the Nova Scotia trag- 
edy arose the tale tfiat Senator Mouton is 
said to have given to the poet along with 
his description of the natural beauties of 
the "green Opelousas" in this "Eden of 

The fact that the poem differs widely 
from the legend as it was handed down in 
the Mouton family is not significant. A 

the Evangeline of Senator Mouton's 
family, when he tells of the grave beneath 
the walls of his church. If he does, the 
grave confirms the tale and makes doubly 
sure that which, it would seem, no one 
has a right to question. 

Present-day names might be quoted, 
but the Acadians are as little fond of pub- 
licity a.s are the better-known Creoles — 
one of the reasons, perhaps, why the story 
of the "real Evangeline" has not gone 
far beyond the family which has been 
glad to record it in its archives. 

Senator Mouton's great -great-grand- 
father was a Kobichead, and one of those 
who suffered at the hands of the English 

variation of the tale may have best suited 
the poet just as the essence of the topog- 
raphy of the country sufficed him. The 
details of the story, as told by Senator 
Mouton's grandmother, may have been 
altered to suit the demands of a fresh 
conception, just as the poet failed to rec- 
oncile dates and distances in writing of 
a land he had never seen. 

If the family legend, which is well 
enough known in the town of New Iberia, 
was really the inspiration of "Evange- 
line," it is a curious literary fact. Per- 
haps the good priest in the ncar-bv St. 
Martinville — the St. Martinville of the 
poem and the old Poste de Attakapas of 
that century-old day — has reference to 


in 1765. His daughter, Mademoiselle 
Robichead, after being carried to Balti- 
more in an English vessel with many oth- 
ers of her race, set her face towanl Lou- 
isiana and made her way to that country 
on foot by way of the Carolinas and 
Georgia. This resolute woman married a 
man of the name of llordca, and from her 
three daughters came three families 
whose names are easily enough traced in 
the parish registers of Iberia and St. 
Mary when they are not found in the rec- 
ords of Louisiana history. A descendant 
of Madame Bordea has preserved the 
story of the original Evangeline as he had 
it from his mother, who was a grand- 
daughter of the Nova Scotia victim. 



The story of the exiles is well enough 
known ; how they were driven from their 
homes in the not too salubrious Nova 
Scotia by the English to be dispersed in 
many places ; how some of them plucked 
up new spirit eventually and made their 
way by the Mississippi, the sea, and even 
on fool, to their fellow-countrymen in 
Louisiana, and how tliey found an asylum 
there on the German coast, near Baton 
Rouge, or on the banks of the Teche still 
further westward. The fertility of the 
Teche land and the "fair Opelousas" was 
not unknown even in those days of 1765, 

lage of St. Martin, already a settlement 
for some thirty years, they landed, and in 
that vicinity they have since lived their 
peculiarly distinctive lives. 

The French emigres who came to St. 
Martinville a little later, driven from no- 
ble homes in France, made for a time the 
glamour of La Petite Paris, as the town 
came to be known. After them came the 
men who made wealth and caste for the 
wide-acred sugar grower ; but behind 
them all the Acadian, or "Caygan," as he 
was known in later days, has maintained 
his identity. Conservative he has been 

and having gone up the Mississippi in 
pirogues and rude battcaux to the mouth 
of the Plaqucmine, it was a voyage with 
the current down the wide- spreading 
Atchafalya and its lakes to the mouth of 
the Teche. 

Brisk, fish-packinjT Morgan Citv is 
now opposite the opening of this almost 
currentless, winding, canal-Uke stu-am. 
up which the Acadians in their day 
turned their boats. Eighty miles further 
into the wilderness, where the live oaks 
came closer together overhead, the smil- 
i;ig soil of the Opelousas told them that 
their journey was at an end. At the vil- 

to his own detriment, hut his pride is not 
the less because of that. 

A well-known writer who visited the 
vicinity of New Il>cria a few years ago, 
and who was misled, perhaps, by the 
term ■'Caygan." met a representative citi- 
zen of the town. 

"Mr. ." he I>cgan, "I want to meet 

a genuine old 'Caygan.' " 

The man addressed took off his hat, 
and drawing himself up. replied: 

"Look at me, then. I'm a genuine 
'Caygan.' " 

The visitor, in .some confusion, ex- 
claimed : 



"I don't mean that, of course." I mean 
an uneducated 'Caygan.' " 

"I am, perhaps, the least educated 
Acadian in the parish," retorted the citi- 

This was hardly true, but it shows that 
some of the spirit which brought this 
man's ancestors several thousand miles in 
search of a home yet maintains a dis- 
tinctive racial pride. The Acadians are 
scattered throughout a country the hmits 
of which are not very exactly defined. 
Morgan City is eighty miles west of New 
Orleans. Beyond that town the Teche 

columned houses tell of antebellum pros- 
perity, and a rambling, comfortable-look- 
ing building low on the banks of the 
bayou is a testimonial of the days when 
travel by water demanded protracted and 
prodigal entertainment. Hereabouts the 
humble farmer is apt to be a "Caygan." 
Twenty miles further up the bayou 
is New Iberia. A house here of brick, 
in a grove of oaks, dates to the ear- 
her years of the last century. In this 
town are citizens who are proud to be of 
Acadian descent. "Caygan" farmers are 
plentiful round about, and more than one 

"bvanqeune's oak," bt. mabtinville, la. 

country is generally the firmland between 
the gulf marshes on the south and the 
bayou on the north. (Weeks Island and 
Avery's Island on the Gulf shore are 
really parts of the mainland and of the 
"Caygan" country.) 

On the banks of the Teche one comes 
first to the town of Franklin, which, in 
spite of its patriotic name and an over- 
shadowing negro population, has a good 
many hints of the older days. The 
morning bedside cup of black coffee is 
not now so common in Louisiana as it 
used to be, but in Franklin it yet prevails 
even in the hotels. Several old, white- 

old anitoirc m the place is burdened with 
the homespun handiwork of Acadian 

It is another twenty-five miles along 
the bayou before St. Martinville is 
reached'. Here the flavour of the older 
days is over all — here the Evangeline 
legend lives. The sign of the cisteni- 
makcr is in French. In the unobtrusive 
church arc parish records dating back to 
1765: birth, death and marriage entries 
in French, Spanish and English. Here, 
just before the last century was born, the 
French fugitives amused themselves with 
an opera — the first in America, perhaps 




— ^and here they left the imprint of noble 
names that read like lists compiled in 
Revolutionary days in France. Here 
live **Caygans" whose wants are yet ele- 
mental and whose patois is a thing of it- 
self. Their world is the prairies of the 
Opelousas, into which the railroads have 
only recently come, to the terror of flocks 
and herds. Here came Mademoiselle 
Robichead and Emmeline Labiche — the 
Evangeline of history — in the year 1765. 
And down beyond the low tree-shaded 
row of little shops; beyond the church 
and the convent school on the banks of 
the Teche, where the big oak spreads its 
arms, was enacted the tragedy of the 
**real Evangeline." 

**In Longfellow's poem, Evangeline 
Bellefontaine and Gabriel Lajeunesse, 
lovers in the snowy Nova Scotian Acadia, 
were separated by the expulsion that 
made tears of Grand Pre's smiles. In 
time Gabriel makes his way to Louisiana 
and the land of the Attakapas. After 

long inquiry the faithful Evangeline 
learns this, and with a few companions 
sets out to follow him by way of the Ohio 
and Mississippi. 

Down the latter the little party floated 
until the mouth of the Bayou Plaque- 
mine was reached. Entering this, she 
rested on the second night amid *'num- 
berless sylvan islands, embowered with 
blossoming hedges of roses." Here, 
while Evangeline and her friends slept 
— "under the boughs of the Wachita wil- 
lows" — Gabriel, who had at last been 
moved by the same spirit that had car- 
ried Evangeline to him, passed by on 
the other side of the island that was 
Evangeline's camp, voyaging to the north 
in search of his sweetheart. Ignorant of 
this, Evangeline continued her journey 
the next day, and that evening reached 
and entered the mouth of the Teche (a 
three-days' journey from the river, which 
in reality often required several weeks). 
Here, near the banks of the stream, 
*'stood, secluded and still, the home of a 
herdsman, rose-wreathed, vine-encum- 
bered, of broad and spacious verandas" 
— the home of "Basil, the Blacksmith." 
So far the Evangeline of poesy ascended 
the Teche. Basil's tree in St. Martin, 
eighty miles away, cannot have the ex- 
cuse that Evangeline's tomb has, for the 
Robichead legend of the Acadian maiden 
has no Basil in it. 

Evangeline lingered but a day or two 
to learn the truth, and then, after only 
this step into the edge of the Teche land, 
she hurried back in pursuit of her lover. 
This fruitless quest is one of the pathetic 
tales of literature ; the journey with Basil 
through the Atchafalaya lakes, up the 
Wachita into the Indian country of the 
Arkansas; the agony of close approach, 
wherein hopes of certain overtaking are 
cruelly dashed over the yet warm embers 
of Gabriel's camp-fires ; the renewed pur- 
suit over many weary miles in which 
happiness is always just within reach, 
but always just beyond, is the pathos of 
the poem, as the tragedy of it is the final 
recognition in death. 

The Evangeline who lived in the flesh 
has a story of her own not less pathetic. 
Madame Bordea, who has much to tell of 
it, is voiced now by a living descendant 
who puts many words into a few. 

"Emmeline Labiche, the real Evange- 
line," she says, "was an orphan girl of 
Acadia whose parents died when she was 
yet a child, and who was taken into my 
great-great-grand father's family and 
adopted." For the rest he tells the story 
as his ancestor might have told it, and, 
as he says, it was told to Longfellow 
many years ago by Senator Mouton, a 
member of his family. 

"She was sweet-tempered, loving and 
g^ew to womanhood with all the attrac- 
tions of her sex," runs Madame Bordea's 
narrative. "Although not a beauty in 
the sense usually given to the word, she 
was looked upon as the handsomest girl 
in St. Gabriel. Her fine, transparent, 
hazel eyes mirrored truthfully her pure 
thoughts. Her bewitching smile, her 
dark-brown hair, her symmetrical shape, 
all combined to make her an attractive 
picture of maiden loveliness. Emmeline 
had just completed her sixteenth year 
and was on the eve of marrying a deserv- 
ing, laborious and well-to-do man of St. 
Gabriel, named Louis Arsenaux. Their 
mutual love dated back to their earliest 
years, and was concealed from no one. 
. . . Their bans had been published in the 
village church, the nuptial day was fixed 
and their young love dream was about to 
be realised, when the barbarous scatter- 
ing of our colony took place. Our op- 
pressors had driven us toward the sea- 
shore, where their ships rode at anchor, 
and Louis, resisting with rage and de- 



spair, was wounded by them. Emmeline 
witnessed the whole scene. . . . Tearless 
and speechless, she stood fixed to the 
spot. . . , When the white sails vanished 
in the distance . . . she clasped me in 
her arms, and in an agony of grief sobbed 
piteoiisly. By degrees the violence of 
her grief subsided, but the sadness of her 
countenance betokened the sorrow that 
preyed upon her heart. 

"Henceforward she lived a quiet and 
retired life, minghng no more with her 
companions and taking no part in their 
amusements. The remembrance of her 
lost love remained enshrined in her heart. 

When we reached the Teche country at 
the Poste de Attakapas we found the 
whole population congregated to wel- 
come us. When we landed from the boat 
Emmeline walked by my side. . . . Sud- 
denly, as if fascinated by a vision, she 
stopped, and then the silvery tones of her 
voice vibrating with joy, she cried: 
'Mother! mother! it is he! It is Louis!' 
And she pointed to the tall figure of a 
man standing beneath an oak. It was 
Louis Arsenaux. . . . She flew to his 
side, crying out in an ecstasy of joy and 
love. He turned ashy pale and hung his 
head without uttering a word, . . . 

, , . Thus she lived in our midst, always 
sweet-tempered, with such sadness de- 
picted on her countenance and with 
smiles so sorrowful that we had come to 
look on her as not of this earth, bitt rath- 
er as our guardian angel. Thus it was 
that we called her no longer Emmeline, 
but Evangeline, or "God's little angel.' 

■'The sequel of her slory is not gay, my 
children. My poor old heart breaks when 
I recall the misery of her fate. . . , Em- 
meline had been exiled to Maryland with 
us. . . . She followed me in my long over- 
land route from Maryland to Louisiana. 

'Louis,' she said, 'why do you turn your 
eyes away? ... I am still your Emme- 
line . . , vour betrothed!' 

"With quivering lips and trembling 
voice, he answered: 'Emmeline, do not 
speak so kindly to me. I am unworthy 
of you. I can love you no longer. I 
have pledged my faith to another. Tear 
from your heart the remembrance of the 
past and forgive me.' Then he wheeled 
away and disappeared in the forest. . . . 

"1 took her hand. It was icy cold. A 
pallor overspread her countenance and 
her eyes had a vacant stare. . . . Sht foV-^ 


IS the bayou Tecbe. The church to the rl^ht; the theatre lo the centre bachsroimdi 



lowed me like a child, without resistance. 
I clasped her in my arms and wept bitter- 
ly. 'Emmeline, my dear, be comforted. 
There may yet be happiness in store for 
you.' *Emmeline, Emmeline/ she mut- 
tered to herself, as if to recall that name, 
and then: *Who are you?* She 
turned away, her mind unhinged. This 
last shock had been too much for her 
broken heart and she was hopelessly in- 
sane. . . . Emmeline never recovered 
her reason and a deep melancholy ever 
possessed her. Her beautiful counte- 
nance was lighted by a sad smile which 
made her all the fairer. She never recog- 
nised any one but me, and nestling in my 

arms . . . she would bestow on me the 
most endearing names. . . . She spoke of 
Acadia and Louis in such terms that one 
could not listen to her without shedding 
tears. She fancied herself still the sweet 
girl of sixteen, on the eve of marrying 
her chosen one, whom she loved with so 
much devotion and constancy. . . . 
Sinking at last under the ravages of her 
mental disease, she expired in my arms. 
. . . She sleeps in her quiet grave by the 
tall oak near the little church at the Poste 
de Attakapas, and that grave has been 
kept green as long as your grandmother 
has been able to visit it." 

H. L. Sayler. 


ONE might have imagined the 
good ship Morro Castle a great, 
amiable leviathan, as she per- 
mitted herself to be pulled 
heavily about, upbraided with ear-split- 
ting whistles, and finally pushed to a 
resting-place on the Brooklyn side by a 
couple of pert, imperious tug boats. 
From her lofty deck and the pier front, 
opposing lines of humanity stared some- 
what stolidly at one another, until, with 
the accompaniment of occasional shouts 
of recognition and exaggerated salutes, 
a good-natured shove from the sea mon- 
ster, answered by a creaking protest on 
the part of the wharf stringers, an- 
nounced the voyage truly ended. 

Leaning against the ship's rail were 
two young men, who were suddenly left 
alone as the boat's line of spectators rap- 
idly dissolved. They had watched the 
operation of warping the vessel into her 
slip with an indifference which might 
have argued that this was not a home- 
coming for them. Apparently neither 
had expected a personal greeting at the 
wharf, for the younger man was plainly 
startled when his comrade suddenly 
threw out his hand, calling out as he did 
so: "Here I am, Bronson, if I'm the man 
you are looking for !" 

Following his gesture, the other saw a 
portly, dignified-looking gentleman, ^'ell 
past middle age, with a rosy complexion. 

white side whiskers closely cropped, and 
the whole crowned by a top silk hat — ^a 
hat of that degree of dinginess that is 
forbidden save to a man very sure of his 
position in life. 

The man on the pier answered the 
salutation with a jerky wave of his hand, 
but did not make an audible reply. In- 
stead, he turned and made his way to 
where some men were elevating a gang- 
plank to the ship's side, placing himself 
where the disembarking passengers 
would soon swarm bv him. 

"Well, Trevor," said the younger man, 
"one friend has taken the trouble to greet 
you — that is, if the old boy in the shock- 
ing hat is a friend." 

**While Bronson mav have a bad hat," 
replied Trevor, rather soberly, "it covers 
a great head ; the important thing about 
it all is that the legal affairs of our family 
have long reposed in his somewhat pudgy 

Then, looking behind him, and seeing 
that his man was ready with their hand 
baggage, Trevor took his friend by the 
arm. **Come," he said, "let's hear the 

"You seem to have a premonition, old 

"Perhaps. You see, Raebum, family 
lawyers don't usually run around the 
docks from pure joy of living." 

To the mental attitude of his friend 



Raeburn demurred, as they went along, 
reminding Trevor that in the bunch of 
correspondence received at Havana three 
days before, there had been no disquiet- 
ing word. However, this only proved 
him to be totally lacking in the gift of 
prophecy; for Bronson, after clasping 
Trevor's hand, announced a serious and 
possibly fatal seizure of Major Trevor. 

"Your uncle is at Highmere," went on 
the lawyer. 

"Highmere!" exclaimed Trevor, with 
evident surprise. "Did he have the stroke 

"No,** replied Bronson, "or, rather, he 
has had two attacks. After he had re- 
covered consciousness — that was in his 
city apartment — he insisted on being 
taken to Highmere, and he had the sec- 
ond stroke after we had been there two 
days. He knew, of course, that you 
were nearly home, and he had shown so 
much anxiety to see you that I decided to 
meet your boat myself and make sure 
that you would go up to-night. I was 
at Highmere with him — he wanted me 
to go over some of his business affairs." 

"But when was this?" 

"Only yesterday — the second one. And 
frankly, Mr. Trevor, I do not think my 
old friend can recover. I can be of no 
further use, and will not go back." 

After a little further talk Bronson 
started for the New York side, and while 
the young men waited for the customs 
officials to release their baggage, Trevor 
pleaded strongly with Raeburn to ac- 
company him. 

"Come, old man," he said, "a day or 
two more will make no difference to your 
people, and after two years' absence the 
rest of Chicago has certainly forgotten 
that you ever lived. Highmere is a 
ghastly enough place at any time ; no one 
has stayed there for ages except a few 
servants, and I wonder Uncle keeps it. 
You heard what Bronson said — the end 
is near, and save for the major I have 
neither kith nor kin above ground. 
Come; it's in the Highlands, less than 
two hours away — don't desert me now." 

To this appeal there could be but one 
answer. Trevor and Raeburn soon after- 
ward landed from a Wall Street ferry, 
and late in the afternoon were speeding 
northward on the east side of the Hud- 
son ; Raeburn doing entire justice to the 
menu afforded by the buffet car, while 

Trevor, eating less and smoking more, 
gazed sad-eyed at the beautiful panorama 
unrolled before the broad window. 

And yet, though he had never seen 
Major Trevor, Raeburn keenly felt the 
striking down of his friend's relative; 
for, since they had formed a friendship 
two years before, he had, unknowingly, 
often proved both a guardian and a spon- 
sor to the travelers. 

The meeting had taken place on the 
deck of a steamer outbound from San 
Francisco to Hawaii. Each was starting 
on a pleasure trip, which was to be lim- 
ited only by the circumference of the 
globe, and being nearly of an age, and 
discovering in each other many mutual 
likings, they soon struck hands upon a 
uniting of their routes. 

Raeburn remembered that one of Tre- 
vor's first remarks introduced the Major. 
"We have a great country, my boy," Tre- 
vor had quoted him as saying ; "you have 
to go around the world to see it all now. 
Go and see it for both of us." 

On the first day out, they had found 
the gruffness of a fellow-passenger — an 
elderly army officer — quickly turned to 
fatherly attention when Trevor's identity 
had been learned. It was by means of 
Major Trevor's letters of introduction 
that the quartermaster in charge of an 
army transport found it possible to carry 
them from Honolulu to Manila; that 
they were invited on *hikes,' and given 
delightful water trips about the islands. 
Through the efficacy of the same docu- 
ments they had been warmly greeted 
from Hong Kong to the headquarters of 
the Legation Guard at Peking, and after- 
ward speeded — ^through Asia, India, and 
Europe — ^by every grade of their coun- 
try's representatives; for in each abode 
of diplomatic or consular dignitary, they 
always found some one who knew, re- 
spected, or loved Major James Trevor, 
Retired, U. S. A. 

From England they had loafed through 
Spain, and this was an especial pleasure 
to Trevor, for he had been a lieutenant 
in a New York Volunteer regiment, and, 
though he had missed the fighting, he had 
seen a little of Cuba in the Army of Occu- 
pation, and Spain had thus gained new 
interest for him. Puerto Rico had been 
reached by a Spanish Royal Mail 
steamer, and from that island Trevor had 
led his friend through Cuba, finding new 



delight in sharing his already acquired 
knowledge of cosas Cubanas, and in 
again meeting army folk who had not 
forgotten his family name. 

It was in the midst of a flood of such 
memories that Raeburn was touched on 
the arm, and followed Trevor out upon 
a little station platform, beside which a 
ramshackle trap, in charge of a shock- 
headed retainer, was in waiting. As no 
one had counted, apparently, on so large 
a party, nor on half the amount of plun- 
der that accompanied it, Trevor left the 
heavy trunks with the station master, 
and picked out such small baggage as 
was likely to be needed for the night. 

"FU send back for the rest this even- 
ing, no doubt," he remarked, **but we 
will be on the safe side." 

After discovering that little new could 
be learned from the driver as to the 
patient's condition, the three-mile ride to 
the estate was made in silence. Trevor's 
preoccupation seemed to increase as the 
distance lessened, while Raeburn, with 
patriotic pride, drew a mental contrast 
in which Cuba's rank guinea grass, 
Spanish bayonet, and even her stately 
royal palms were found wanting, when 
weighed against the Highland landscape 
with its trimly-kept farms and velvety 
verdure. Fresh from the abrupt night- 
fall of the tropics, there was a delightful, 
almost magical witchery in the way the 
soft twilight tints were prolonged. He 
remembered afterward that the rose 
lights changed to grey and the heavens 
grew ashen just at the moment when 
they turned in at a tenantless lodge, and 
their wheels grated harshly on the long, 
unkempt gravel path leading to High- 



Peculiar old pile, isn't it?" asked 
Trevor, shaking off his mental lethargy. 
"Locally it's more often called the Haci- 
enda than Highmere; and with some 
reason, as you will find when you look 
about the place. Grandfather was the 
builder, and you will discover architec- 
tural lines that may be traced to his ex- 
tended army service in New^ Mexico and 

"It was a sort of retreat for the old 
gentleman, and when Uncle James mar- 
ried he bc^n life here — with — with his 

young wife " ending the sentence 

with a little shiver that his companion 

attributed to the chill of approaching 

•*I have told you," Trevor continued, 
**that he was the elder son. This place 
was made over to him several years be- 
fore he married, and he spent a good 
deal of time here when he was stationed 
near enough. He married after a four 
years' tour of service — utilised his ac- 
cumulated leave to set up a house- 
hold " again Trevor checked himself, 

but soon added, in a livelier tone, "I be- 
lieve he loved this old spot in his acad- 
emy days — West Point is not far away — 
across the river — and it was not a half 
bad place at that time. Some very good 
families had country houses hereabout, 
and there were exceedingly gay times, 
I have been told. In fact," he concluded, 
after a slight pause, "that was conclusive- 
ly proved." 

By this time they were approaching the 
building, and Raeburn was studying, 
through the gathering gloom, its heavy 
outline. The Hacienda was a long, one- 
story building, with a semi-circular porte 
cachere jutting out from the centre of a 
broad veranda ; the latter reaching across 
the building's front and along the west 
side. To the east he caught a faint 
sheen of water, and could just define a 
small lake spreading through a little val- 
ley, and which seemed to approach with- 
in a hundred yards, or less, of that side 
of the house. 

As the porte cochere was reached the 
great front door was opened, and a man 
bearing a lantern stepped upon the ver- 

**That vou, Dawlev ?" called Trevor. 
"Yes, Mr. Frank," replied the man ad- 
dressed, holding up the light and thus re- 
vealing the face of an elderly servitor, 
whom Raeburn later learned was the 
long-time body servant of Major Trevor. 
"It's a sad welcome I'm giving you, 
sir," continued Dawley. "The major 
hasn't spoken since yesterday's attack; 
I'm fearful of the worst. And he was 
so anxious to see you again." 

"Well, let's hope while there is life, 
Dawley," replied Trevor, as they entered 
the hall, and were greeted anew by an- 
other oldish man, who was attired as a 
butler — ^though the garb showed long 
disuse — ^and a sweet-faced, little old 
woman ; the twain, Raeburn learned, be- 
ing in charge of the house, and the 



grandparents of the tousle-headed dri- 

It was soon apparent, also, that Rae- 
burn's advent was not only unexpected, 
but disconcerting; for while there was 
no lack of rooms in the old pile, it ap- 
peared that few were fit for immediate 

"I shall put your friend in the second 
room of the east wing, Mr. Frank," said 
the housekeeper, hesitatingly — almost in- 
quiringly — **if you will give me a few 
moments to make it ready." 

To this Trevor demurred, but Raeburn 
stopped him, begging him to go to his 
uncle and not bother over rooms. 

But Trevor was plainly in two minds. 
"Oh, very well," he said, after a moment 
of indecision. ** Martha can find vou an- 
Other place to-morrow, if that one is — 
not satisfactory. Make yourself at home 
till my man comes for you," and with 
that he departed toward the west wing 
with the butler. 

Trevor's valet had seemed to be in no 
uncertainty as to where his master would 
lodge, for he had already led the way 
in the direction taken by the butler. 
Martha hurried off to attend to the room 
designated for Raeburn, and the latter 
rambled on through the wide central 
hall-way to see what manner of place the 
Hacienda might be. As he did so he 
felt himself inwardly approving that 
local title. Low, almost squat, with very 
thick walls, he felt as he reached a tiled 
patio at the end of the hall, that the 
place was so thoroughly Southwestern 
that by the addition of a round-domed 
tower with its cluster of silver-throated 
bells, or the installation of a few spindly- 
mounted brass cannon, Highmere trans- 
ported to the valley of the Rio Grande 
could serve as a typical mission or fort — 
as circumstances might direct. 

Imagine a great E, with its upright 
double thick, and the centre arm re- 
moved, and it will give you the floor plan 
of Highmere. Place the longest side to 
the south, so that the two wings will run 
northward, and there is little to add to 
the description except ifo say that the 
central hallway referred to exactly di- 
vides the building into east and west 

Raeburn found that to the east the 
main portion of the building contained a 
front and back drawing-room, and on the 

west, similarly located, a library and din- 
ing-room. At either end of the building, 
he later learned, were great bed chambers. 
To the rear of these apartments, in either 
wing, were all the other sleeping-rooms of 
the house ; and these, with the exception 
of the two corner chapibers, had their 
entrances from the central court. This 
patio struck Raeburn as typically Span- 
ish. It had a fountain — now dismantled 
— in its centre, and flower spaces, empty 
save for a few humble garden blooms, 
were arranged conventionally about the 

Returning to the library he glanced 
along the dusty shelves until Martha 
came to escort him to his room, where 
he found Trevor's man already unfasten- 
ing his hand baggage. The apartment, 
the full width of the wing, was a com- 
modious one, with two windows and a 
door giving on the patio. 

Raeburn crossed the room and idly 
drew away the heavy curtains which 
seemed to cover a window space in the 
eastern wall, only to find himself staring 
at a blank surface. Somewhat puzzled, 
he tried the other pair of curtains on that 
side, and found a second blind window. 

Turning inquiringly to the valet, Rae- 
burn learned from him that there were 
no windows on that side. "Leastways, 
never in mv time," he added. But the 
two on the patio would be ample for 
light and air, the man suggested. He 
further said that a doctor from New 
York was in attendance, and that he was 
lodged in the large corner room adjoin- 
ing, while Major Trevor was lying in 
the corresponding apartment at the other 
end of the building. The man also vol- 
unteered the information that Trevor's 
bed-chamber was the counterpart, in the 
other wing, of Raeburn's, and that he 
and his uncle had always occupied those 
rooms upon the rare occasions when they 
had visited Highmere. 

"And what about our trunks?" Rae- 
burn inquired, after the man had ar- 
ranged clothes and toilet articles, and 
was leaving the room. 

"If the bo\; has not started by now, I 
am afraid you will not get them till 
morning, sir, for it will soon be raining." 

This surprised Raeburn, and he walked 
to the front veranda to take a peep at the 
weather. Sure enough, the sky was 
heavily overcast, and there was that tense 



calm in the air that so often precedes a 
summer storm. Off on the horizon light- 
ning flashes were already showing lurid- 
ly at short intervals. 

Lighting a cigar Raebum sat down on 
a broad settle, and was watching the 
storm gather with the disinterested de- 
light one feels if he has but recently left 
the deck of a ship when Trevor joined 

"Poor old man," he said, "the doctor 
gives us no hope. It's paralysis of a 
most thorough sort, and really the third 
attack, for it seems he had a slight one 
six months ago." 

"Did he recognise you?" asked Rae- 
burn, for want of a more sympathetic 

"Not at all. He is a man in a stupor. 
He may die at a moment's notice, or he 
may live a day or two and rally a bit be- 
fore the end. Please God, it will be the 
latter; for it would be a comfort to me, 
and, I hope, to him, if he might feel the 
clasp of my hand again. I owe so much 
to him, you know " he ended, ten- 

Together they sat in silence till the 
rising wind brought a few rain drops 
splashing in their faces, and they decided 
to go in, and to bed. 

Raeburn's room was lighted by a stu- 
dent lamp of a large size. It might be 
more correct to say that a lighted student 
lamp was in the room ; for, even after he 
had removed the upper opal shade, the 
great apartment was gloomy almost to 
an oppressive degree. Looking about, 
Raeburn decided that the dull, lustreless 
Indian stuff with which the room was 
hung made it a hard place to illumine, 
for the hangings seemed fairly to ab- 
sorb the light beams, exhausting rather 
than reflecting such brilliancy as reached 
them. Double doors separated the room 
from the larger corner one, indicating 
that they had at one time been arranged 
as a suite. On the north wall was a 
mantel of dark oak, matching, sombrely, 
the door and window finishing. 

At the right of the mantel hung the 
full-length portrait of a beautiful woman. 
in what was apparently a bridal cos- 
tume. The face, he thought, was a good 
one; round rather than oval, with soft. 
fair curls accentuating its girlishness. 
The lips were slightly parted, as though 
the happy, smiling young wife were just 

about to speak. This idea was height- 
ened by the eyes, which were painted in 
so true a line that they seemed to follow 
him about the room. 

The effect was not only repugnant but 
disconcerting to Raeburn, for he was 
of that not inconsiderable class that finds 
in this old trick of portrait painters a 
cumulative eerieness that is disagreeable 
— and trying. Indeed, he thought for a 
moment of veiling, in some fashion, those 
brilliant, searching orbs, but decided to 
resist the impulse. 

On the corresponding space to the left 
of the fireplace was the companion por- 
trait of a young man, thirty or there- 
abouts, in the uniform of a captain of 
artillery. That the couple were the elder 
Trevor and his wife Raeburn made no 
doubt, and taking up the lamp carefully 
studied the counterfeit presentiment of 
the man whose life was slowly ebbing, 
only a few paces away. 

In the heydey of his youth, Raeburn 
had promptly judged, the Major had 
been good to look upon, if the artist were 
no flatterer. There was something hawk- 
like about the nose, but Raeburn recalled 
that Wellington and Sir Charles Napier 
had set a good fashion for soldiers in 
that respect. He smiled to himself as 
Martial's saying came to him, "Not every 
man is so lucky as to have a nose." The 
mouth seemed good, but as he scrutinised 
its level line and thin upper lip more 
keenly it seemed to develop a shade of 
cruelty ; yes, and not a little of what 
might be haughty pride or infernal inso- 
lence, according to occasion. He stepped 
back and saw the face lose its hardness 
as the light receded. Then forward 
again, with the lamp closer still, till he 
distinctly saw the face grow cold, set and 
merciless as the illumination brought into 
high relief those characteristics which 
the strong light — or his fancy — empha- 

But the eyes were not turned on him : 
their gaze was directed toward the smil- 
ing bride. Trevor had never mentioned 
his aunt before that evening, and he fell 
to wondering whether his divination were 
true sooth. Did she laugh and look 
away with eyes that unceasingly chal- 
lenged admiration; and did her soldier 
husband's gaze change at last from pride 
to hate — with that hard, malignant 
sneer ? 



"Come, come, old man," he finally said 
to himself, **it*s bad manners at the very 
least to be searching for soul traces in 
these dusty old canvases. Set the lamp 
down — that's better — and get some 

As he placed the lamp on the table he 
noticed a small curtained bookcase stand- 
ing under the picture of the Major, and 
drawing back its hangings glanced at the 
shelves for some volume which might be 
sipped luxuriously for a little time, with 
the lamp close to the head of his couch. 
But there were more odds and ends than 
books. Indeed, shelves and their con- 
tents seemed to have been deposited there 
by some domestic high waters, rather 
than through some definite arrangement. 
He quickly discovered that those books 
which were not devoted purely to mili- 
tary science were paper-backed publica- 
tions of the War Department, and one 
of the latter was picked up gingerly, and 
enough dust brushed from its outer page 
to allow him to read its title. It was an 
Army Register for 1888, and curiously 
he turned the pages for some mention of 
Major Trevor. After finding him in his 
place on the retired list, Raeburn was 
about to throw the book back, when his 
eye fell on the list of officers upon whom 
brevet rank had been conferred. Among 
the T*s he was pleased to find the name 
of his involuntary host, and to note that 
he had been thrice honoured, the three 
commissions and the reasons for their be- 
stowal being set forth thus : 

First Lieutenant: Gallant and meri- 
torious services in the battle of Bat- 
tery Wagner, South Carolina. 

Captain : Specially gallant and meri- 
torious services in the Atlanta cam- 

Major: Gallant services in action 
against the Indians at the Clearwater, 
Idaho, where he was severely wound- 

Here was food for pride but not for 
extended thought, so he tossed the book 
on the table and turned to his bed ; a 
brass, camp-like affair that had doubtless 
been trundled in that very night for his 
accommodation. Soon he was resting 
easily, undisturbed by the storm which 
was steadily rising in its intensity. In 
fact, lulled by its very croon he fell 

It seemed to Raeburn that he had 
hardly closed his eyes when he found 
himself awake and on the floor, standing 
with his hands on one of the heavy win- 
dow curtains at the east wall of his room. 
He was faintly conscious that some un- 
usual sound had roused him, and very 
thoroughly at that. But as his senses 
quickly cleared, and he listened to the 
shrieking wind and lashing rain he was 
very sure that no disturbance of the ele- 
ments had taken him from his bed, 
though the noises were certainly enough 
to disconcert any one but a well-seasoned 

As he stood, each nerve alert, to catch 
again some sound, he knew not what, 
there came a distinct tinkling, as of metal 
on glass, and it seemed that some one 
was tapping on the window in such a 
manner that a ring, or other hard sub- 
stance, was producing the dominant tone. 
Quickly he threw back the hangings, but 
all was dark. At that moment a flash of 
lightning flooded the chamber sharply, 
and he saw the wall, which brought to 
his mind what he had forgotten for the 
time being : that there was no window on 
that side of the room. 

A strange, gruesome sensation spread 
over his body^ and he felt his flesh tingle 
as the sound came again : 

''Tap, tap, tap, tap,'' in quick, impa- 
tient time. 

Why he should be so uncannily im- 
pressed he knew not; but the sensation 
was not unlike that given by a telephone, 
in this, that the call was to him in so in- 
dividual a sense that he felt another, 
though standing but a few feet away, 
could not have been conscious of that 
clear, vibrant alarm. Then he heard, or 
rather, was conscious of a voice: a wo- 
man's. It was low, intense, but with such 
a despairing, beseeching qjuality that each 
word fairly tugged at his heart. 

"Open the window, James . . . do . . . 
in God's name . . . let me . . . come back 
to you. . . think, beloved, of the many, 
many times it has opened for you . . . 
forgive . . . your faithful wife. . . . 
Forgi ..." 

The voice was lost — or blended — in so 
weird and terrifying a wail from the 
storm that Raeburn's blood ran chill. 
Another vivid flash filled the room with 
its baleful glare, and by it he caught 
again those painted eyes and saw once 



more the parted lips of the bride. But 
the face photographed on his retinea in 
that instant was drawn and piteous; 
there was a yearning, imploring look in 
the eyes, and the lips seemed to be form- 
ing that last word, "forgive." 

And so he stood while one might have 
counted a score, and then with dry 
mouth and uneven footsteps, turned to 
the dressing-table and groped about for 
his watch. No other flash coming quick- 
ly to his aid, he noted the time by the 
help of a match. It was 12 105. 

For a few moments he revolved in his 
mind the idea of dressing and going out- 
side ; or, if not that, the calling of some 
one who would do so. But each impulse 
was instantly met by a thought which 
seemed to reach him, rather than be 
evolved, and which convinced him that 
no living creature was beyond that 
walled window. 

Morning was long in coming; for, 
though the storm had reached its height 
at midnight, he was restless and wide- 
awake, scarcely closing his eyes until a 
servant knocked to let him know that it 
was seven o'clock. Trevor joined him 
at breakfast, at which meal they were 
served by the butler alone, and Raeburn 
was informed that there had been no 
change in the patient. Dawley had 
watched with his master, and during the 
greater part of the night Trevor and the 
doctor had slept well. Raeburn*s own 
unrefreshed appearance was not noticed, 
to his great relief, and when he found 
that Trevor wished to put in the morning 
going over his uncle's papers, he sug- 
gested that he be allowed to pilot himself 
about Highmere. 

"Go ahead, old man," said his friend, 
"and its kind of you to let me have the 
morning. You will not find much of in- 
terest about the place, I fear. Nearly all 
of the ground has been put under cul- 
tivation except the small demesne. Our 
farmer lives on the other side of the 
place, and the crops go out by a different 
road than the one we used last night." 

Naturally Raeburn's first wish was to 
see the outer wall of his room ; and he 
was not greatly surprised to find that 
while there had been windows there at 
one time, as the copings indicated, they 
had been bricked up, leaving no sign of 

5 'lazing. That the closing of the win- 
ows had been done after the building 

was finished was shown by the line of 
demarcation between the old and new 
material, but it was all so weather-stained 
that it required a close inspection to de- 
tect even this. 

Pondering on the events of the night, 
he turned to the little lake, whose surface 
was now smiling and dimpling in the 
morning sunlight. It was a narrow sheet 
of water, though of some length; me- 
andering between low hills, so that he 
could not see its full extent. On either 
bank the place was well wooded, but it 
had the appearance of a natural forest, 
or the remains of one, rather than the 
more park-like aspect to have been ex- 
pected in a grove so near a dwelling. 

Raeburn wandered along the north 
bank toward a small summer-house 
among the trees, and, taking out a cigar, 
strove to recount, chronologically and 
definitely, the matter that was uppermost 
in his mind ; but in that brilliant sunshine 
he found it difficult to assume an ade- 
quate mental poise. It did seem just a 
trifle absurd, he confessed to himself, 
and not within a couple of centuries of 
ready credence. After a moment he be- 
came aware of a monument some little 
distance further on, and walking toward 
it saw that a place had been cleared for 
a tiny burying-ground, and enclosed by 
a low stone wall. Within was a single 
shaft, and as he drew closer he read the 
simple statement that Miriam, wife of 
James Barfield Trevor, and daughter of 
Colonel George Barry Plimpton and his 
wife, Alice, had departed this life, July 
1 2th, 1872, in the twenty-first year of her 

Raeburn was conscious of the fact that 
the grave was strewn with fresh flowers, 
but it was not until he had re-read the in- 
scription that the thought came to him 
that it had been precisely thirty ^ears 
since this young life had gone out, and 
he was musing over the coincidence of 
the anniversary; wondering vaguely if 
that might bear somewhat on the mystery 
of the previous night, when he saw Tre- 
vor coming toward the little graveyard. 

"What strange influence has led you 
to this spot to-day?" began Trevor, and 
then, as Raeburn stammered some unin- 
telligible reply, he went on, "Almost the 
first paper I touched reminded me of the 
date, and I felt that I must come here, if 
only for a moment." Then, as he saw 



the flowers, "but dear old Martha has 
been here before us both. She has vis- 
ited the tomb of her beloved Very early 
in the morning.' Come back to the sum- 
mer house, Raeburn, and I will tell you 
the story. 

"I hardly know where to start, or why 
I feel called upon to tell you of this 
tragedy," Trevor began, "except that 
there is a curious weaving of this date 
into my uncle's life. Sixty years ago 
to-day he was born ; thirty years ago his 
wife — met her death, and on July 12th. 
1903 he lies dying. And she who passed 
away at that middle milestone sought her 
own death — and found it in the little lake 
before us. Her body lies within a 
stone's throw of where it was recovered. 
It is not for me to judge that old man ; 
and yet a word from him would have 
averted the catastrophe." 

Trevor arose and paced the little plat- 
form several times before he resumed. 
"I have told you that my uncle frequently 
visited this place before he married. 
There were bad men and worse women 
for his neighbours, whose influence 
harmed him in many ways. Doubtless it 
was a mistake to bring his young wife 
here, and my grandfather must have re- 
alised the fact, for he came up to visit the 
young people before they had been here 
a month. Ten years older than his young 
wife, the gay young captain of artillery 
had by no means finished sowing his wild 
oats, and my grandfather's whole heart 
was set upon the idea thj.t marriage 
would work a reform. My aunt had been 
grandfather's ward ; the orphan child of 
old army friends — we Trevors have all 
been army people until my generation — 
and she was brought up in our old home. 
That, therefore, the marriage had for 
years been an event fixed will not sur- 
prise you, and I grieve to say that while 
uncle had long been the girlish ideal of 
my Aunt Miriam, there was more tol- 
erance than love on the other side. 

"Poor young thing, she was neglected 
before my grandfather came here, and 
after that; for, though his servants un- 
ostentatiously watched the doors, he still 
slipped out nightly to join his carousing 
friends. The windows of his room — 
your room last night, where her picture 
still hangs — were secretly opened to let 
him ride away " 

"The windows in my room?" ex- 
claimed Raeburn. 

"Yes; I will soon explain. Many a 
night the young wife locked the casement 
behind him as he rode off on his horse, 
and softly admitted him again in the 
early hours. We know that she begged 
— entreated him to give up his evil as- 
sociates, and yet she shielded him for 
very pride's sake until after grandfather 
had gone back to New York. 

"Then came the serpent — though this 
was scarcely an Eden — in the guise of 
one of uncle's friends. The man lived 
near, and became a daily visitor. He 
made much of her neglected condition. 
Finally, one afternoon, he persuaded her 
that a party of young people, mutual 
friends, were to meet at a town some ten 
miles away. Martha heard a portion of 
their conversation, and has always main- 
tained that my aunt was given to under- 
stand that she would later meet my uncle, 
and be brought home by him that night. 

For a wonder uncle came home early 
that evening, and of course there was a 
terrible scene. Martha stoutly defended 
her mistress's motives, but uncle raged 
like a wild man. Later it came on to 
storm in a frightful fashion, and it must 
have been near midnight when she came 
alone and on foot to uncle's window and 
tapped for admission — ^but no answer 
came. Doubtless she felt that she must 
see him, and no other, before she would 
dare to enter the place. Then, heartsick, 
frantic, wearied in flesh and spirit, be- 
lieving that she could never convince her 
husband of her innocence, she turned her 
tired feet down the hillside to the lake — 
and ended it all." 

Trevor paused and looked toward the 
softly lapping waves, while Raeburn felt 
within him a strange sympathy for this 
broken-winged butterfly of a bygone day, 
and there was a lump in his throat as he 
pictured the laughing face, whose image 
he had studied on the previous night, ly- 
ing cold in such a bitter death. 

"In the morning," said Trevor, "uncle 
came from his room early, a picture of 
misery and remorse, and shortly after- 
ward one of the work-people found the 
body. Her silken shoes were stained and 
torn with running along the road, so 
we know that she must have fled from 
the tempter when she found, too late, 
that she had been lured away by lies. 



Hard — hard it must have been to fight 
her way homeward in that blinding storm 
only to find her husband's heart locked 
against her. 

**Of course all this came out at the in- 
quest; it will come out anew when he 
is laid away, and I am telling you the 
story that my best friend may better 
understand the man who has shown me 
such love as few fathers bestow. Per- 
haps, behind a shield of cold, hard pride, 
few men have sufTered more. 

"Granted that the wrong was mon- 
strous — I know, as perhaps none other 
knows, the pitiless meed of its atone- 

"That is all, I think — no, your win- 
dows. I am told that my uncle kept that 
apartment for a time after the tragedy. 
That those about him felt that he occu- 
pied rather than slept in it ; for each 
morning he emerged more worn and 
broken, as though every night added a 
score to his years. Finally, he gave or- 
ders — we never knew why — that those 
two windows should be bricked up. He 
saw the masons begin; then left High- 
mere for ten years, and his evil ways for- 

"Why," inquired Raeburn, after a 
pause, "did you wish me placed some- 
where else ?'* 

"I can give you no reason, except that 
all my life I have had a horror of the 
very room itself. My uncle never en- 
tered it during our rare visits here, and 
so I grew up with an aversion to the 
place. Do you wish to change?" 

"Oh, no," was the reply; "I am very 

There was no perceptible alteration in 
Major Trevor's condition during the 
day. Raeburn wandered about the place, 
ending the morning in the library. He 
found that nearly all the books in that 
large room bore directly upon the art of 
war or the lives of the world's famous 
captains. One little book upon the life 
of Sir Charles Napier appealed to him in 
a whimsical fashion, when he recalled his 
thoughts of the night before upon the 
large noses of some great fighters. Tak- 
ing up the book, it opened at a place 
where a newspaper clipping had been in- 
serted. This was an excerpt from an old 
copy of the London Times, and contained 
an appreciation of Sir Charles's life. 
Raebum's eye caught its keynote in the 

following lines: "High spirits, immense 
courage, great ingenuity, and prodigious 

Here Trevor found him, and picking 
up a bound volume of the Army Register 
said, "I do not know that the stars fight 
for or against us, but I believe that there 
are climacterics to which heaven and hell 
lend their powers. My uncle won three 
brevets by personal valor " 

"Yes," interrupted Raeburn. "I have 
read the record." 

"But they do not show one important 
point. Listen : Battery Wagner, July 
I2th, 1863; July I2th, 1864, he rendered 
the particular services for which he was 
brevetted a captain. July 12th, 1877, 
was the date of the battle at the Clear- 
water. There he received the wound 
that placed him on the retired list, and 
there he won our army's glorious guer- 
don, the Congressional Medal of Hon- 

Rapidly turning the pages he found 
the record of men who wear that decora- 
tion, and read, with glistening eyes : 

"Major James Barfield Trevor: For most 
distinguished gallantry in action at the Clear- 
water, Idaho, where he voluntarily and success- 
fully conducted, in the face cf a withering fire, 
a party which recovered possession of an aban- 
doned howitzer and two Catling guns, lying 
between the lines and within a few yards of 
the Indians." 

"I feel — I know — he hoped for death 
that day with honour. But Fate said: 
"No; not now. Suffer yet many years." 
Turning to Raeburn he held out his hand 
and said, in a choking voice, **Come and 
see him." 

Raeburn softly followed to the room 
from whence the master of Highmere 
was slowly drifting to meet the Great 
Mystery. He saw a face which seemed 
to bear little more than a family resem- 
blance to the portrait, save in the hawk's 
bill nose. For the rest, the jaws seemed 
more square, the black hair had turned 
a frosty iron grey, and though he could 
not see the eyes, he did not need their 
evidence to tell him that firmness was the 
chief characteristic of that weather- 
beaten, martial countenance. As he 
gazed he wondered in how great degree 
that tragedy of thirty years aeo was re- 
sponsible for the presence at Highmere 



of the Major. Had he recognised the 
stroke in New York as a certain warning 
of death's approach, and had he then de- 
termined to face the Grim One where an- 
other had once sought surcease? Not 
much prospect of an answer to that rid- 
dle, Raeburn decided. 

In the evening the two young men sat 
long on the broad veranda, consuming 
countless cigars, while they discussed 
their wanderings, their respective futures, 
and their ideals. Raeburn prolonged the 
conversation as long as possible, that he 
might go at a late hour to his room alert- 
ly awake — in such a mood that no 
drowsy senses should play him tricks — 
to listen for, and to calmly, consider, any 
unusual event. 

And so it lacked but a few moments 
of midnight when he was standing at his 
dressing-table, slowly divesting himself 
of garments; gazing from time to time 
at the painted features of Major Trevor 
and Miriam, his wife. In fact, he had 
partly persuaded himself that he might 
have heard nothing on the^ night before 
but the rattle and wail of the storm, 
when, abruptly, out of the quiet night 

came the tinkling of light blows on a 
window pane. 

"Tap, tap, tap, tap," 

Again they seemed to impinge pal- 
pably upon bared nerves. Again that 
creepy, tense-fleshed sensation, and he 
was irresistibly drawn toward those 
blind, blank window places. Then came 
— appealing, to his inner consciousness — 
a sob ; an agonised, piteous burst of grief, 
and he sensed that pleading voice once 

"Love . . . Oh, my love ... for- 
give. . . .'* 

Tingling from his heart to the roots of 
his hair, he waited, listening, when sud- 
denly the voice rang out clearly, and in 
its new tone were joy and recognition, 
thrilling through a single word : 


Raeburn caught his breath as though 
some glad tidings had suddenly been 
borne to him, as well and stood, ab- 
sorbed, until he heard a knock at the door. 

"Well r he called, rather brokenly. 

"It's me, sir," came the butler's voice. 
"Mr. Frank wished you to know — ^thc 
Major is dead." 

JVilliam Harley Porter. 


A day betwixt — when nothing can be done 
Until some great affair is fairly past 
And folk are free to work or play at last 

To suit themselves — that is a day to shun, 

A weary day ere it be well begun ! 
Its only use, that we may it contrast 
With some dear day that flitted all too fast, 

Illumined with happiness but newly won. 

Yet, while we wait, how great a joy to turn 
The vision backward to the glowing hours 

When we were young and little could discern 
Between our passions and our native powers ; 

When, fearless of the future, love could burn ; 
When fame foreseen could gild our airy towers. 

Charles Woodward Hutson, 


There is great excitement in Iceland 
at this moment. Hall Caine is on his 
way there equipped with a large novel- 
producing plant, including cameras, sheep 
shears, filing cabinets, blank forms of 
affidavit, a hectograph, ten stenographers, 
and a barrel of ink. He will learn the 
language on shipboard so that no time 
may be lost. The matter is urgent, for 
punctually on the morning of Aug. i, 
1904, there is due from him a novel of 
great primitive passions, strong, deep, 
fresh and true, of which the scene must 
be laid in Iceland. It will be written 
with terrific force throughout, and with 
abundant evidence of first-hand impres- 
sions. Types studied on the spot, actual 
events in the life of the people, their very 
words, a background of ice, snow, Arctic 
twilight, penguins and walruses, a fore- 
ground of fierce primitive hate and 
Oqually fierce joy, all to be first seen, then 
snap-shotted, then dictated, then carefully 
revised, read back, punctuated, and filed 
— it will be a busy and a fruitful fort- 
night. But he will not fail. The ele- 
ments will be there as per invoice on the 
morning of Aug. i. "What will your 
next novel be ? Religious ?*' asked a friend 
a year or two ago. "Fve done religion," 
said Mr. Caine, calmlv. "Social?'* ven- 
tured the other. **I have finished the 
social problems," he replied with a touch 
of asperity. "Civilized man,'' he went 
on, "is complete in my books. Primitive 
man now awaits me. He will be ready 
on August I ; dramatized on October 15. 
I then turn to ideal love on a background 
of simplicity. I shall study it in the Vale 
of Cashmere, June 10 to June 20, both 
inclusive, 1905." Splendid executive abil- 
ity, promptitude and push, head like a 
"dry-goods emporium,'' heart like a mod- 
em hotel, no costly whims or private 
prejudices, a man for the many and a 
publisher's delight, an inexpensive demo- 
cratic Zeitgeist — we would rather own 
a hundred shares of stock in him than 
in any other industrial afloat. Ere this 
goes to print, Mr. Caine will have land- 
^, and the berserker hum of the primi- 
tive passions confessing will be heard on 
all sides. 

Speaking of "getting up" a novel, Mr. 
Henry James in his delightful essay in 
the August Atlantic has described the 
wonder he felt at some of Zola's attempts 
at it. He visited Zola twice, and his 
mind still dances at the recollection of 
the enormous horse-power of Zola's pur- 
pose. Once he asked him if his work 
left him any time for travel, and in par- 
ticular if he had seen Italy — 

A country from which I had cither just re- 
turned, or which I was luckily — not having 
the Natural History of a Family to count with 
— about to revisit. "All I've done, alas," he 
replied, "was the other year in the course of a 
little journey to the south, to my own pays — 
all that has been possible was then to make a 
little dash as far as Geneva — a matter of a few 
days." Le Docteur Pascal, the conclusion of 
Lcs Rougon Macquart, had appeared but short- 
ly before, and it further befell that I asked him 
what plans he had for the future, now that, still 
dans la force de I'dge, he had so cleared the 
ground. I shall never forget the fine prompti- 
tude of his answer — "Oh, 1 shall begin at once 
Lcs Trots Villcs." "And which cities are they 
to be?" The reply was finer still — "Lourdes, 
Paris, Rome." It was splendid for confidence 
and cheer, but it left me, 1 fear, more or less 
gaping. ... He was an honest man — he 
had always bristled with it at every pore; but 
no artistic reverse was inconceivable for an 
adventurer who, relating in one breath that his 
knowledge of Italy consisted of a few days 
spent at Genoa, was ready to declare in the 
next that he had planned on a scale a picture 
of Rome. 

Like Mr. Caine indomitably sailing the 
northern waters, Zola never turned back, 
and at the time appointed the three books 
appeared, not so much books, though, as 
three huge blocks of frozen purpose. But 
there is a sense of waste here quite lack- 
ing in the other instance. If he had not 
tied himself down, art might have flown 
awav with him as it did in LAssommoir, 

and wc should all have been happy. 
Among authors, great men are best when 
they forget : little men when they remem- 
ber. If there is nothing more particular 
in a man than there is in the papers he 
clips from, where is the waste ? In litera- 
ture the main thing is the person ; in the 
market the main thing is other people; 
and while it is sad to think of Zola "get- 
ting up" Rome, it is altogether pleasant 
and edifying to know that Mr. Caine is 



"doing" Iceland. Most novels, like most 
hats, are made for the average head, of 
definite constituents, and with no call for 
fantasy in the manufacture. There is 
no danger that art and industry will be 
permanently confounded, and for our 
part we are glad to hear about new bl^st 
furnaces, and opening mills, and in- 
creased shipments, and authors plough- 
ing the Spanish main for a pirate atmos- 
phere, taking notes on a mining hero 
underground, carting off Kentucky turf 

for a Blue Grass background, poets in 
tree tops writing their bird-notes on the 
spot, fishermen's lays draughted precisely 
while they fish, everywhere the buzz of 
honest toil, full dinner pail, better clothes, 
more shoes, more books, and new schools 
opening in the South for pickaninnies to 
learn to read them. Thrift and method 
may be bad for art and death to geniuses, 
but the steady hand and the business head 
are the things for current literature. 

Frank Moore Colby. 


By FVederic Taber Cooper and t>4rtt«ir Bartlett Maurice 


IN looking backward over a century 
of caricature, it is interesting to 
ask just what it is that makes the 
radical difference between the car- 
toon of to-day and that of a hundred 
years ago. That there is a wide gulf 
between the comparative restraint of the 
modem cartoonist and the unbridled li- 
cense of Gillray's or Rowlandson's gro- 
tesque, gargoyle types, is self-evident; 
that comic art, as applied to politics, is 
to-day more widespread, more generally 
anoreciated, and in a quiet way more 
effective in moulding public opinion than 
ever before, needs no argument. And 
yet, if one stons to analyse the individual 
cartoons, to take them apart and discover 
the essence of their humour, the incisive 
edge of their irony and satire, one finds 

that there is nothing really new in them ; 
that the basic principles of caricature 
were all understood as well in the eigh- 
teenth century as in the nineteenth, and 
and that, in many cases, the successful 
cartoon of to-day is simply the replica of 
an old one of a past generation, modified 
to fit a new set of facts. When Gilbert 
Stuart drew his famous "Gerrymander" 
cartoon, he was probably not the first art- 
ist to avail himself of the chance resem- 
blance of the geographical contour of a 
state or country to some person or animal. 
He certainly was not the last. Again and 
again the map of the United States has 
been drawn so as to bring out some sig- 
nificant similarity, as recently when it 
was distorted into a ludicrous semblance 
of Mr. Cleveland, bending low in proud 


humility, the living embodiment of the 
principle, L'Etat, ^est Mot, and again, 
showing a capital likeness to Uncle Sam, 
the Atlantic and Gulf States forming- his 
nose and mouth, the latter suggestively 
opened to take in Cuba, which is swim- 

ming dangerously near. Puck's famous 
"Tattooed Man" was only a new applica- 
tion of an idea that had been used before ; 
while the representation of a group of 
leading politicians as members of a freak 
show, a circus, or a minstrel troup, is as 




Tbe Baccarat ScaniM al Traoby Crolt in 1891. 


ByGillamfa jDdge. (Porfullde«crlptionBeepciges6.) 


The Noi.)- Boy in the Enropean r.odKing House. 
From Jaige. (For full detcrlption >ee pane so.) 


^ cold black and white of the 
n. - 

irpsting effect of the grow- 
Jive spirit in caricature is 
jfaduai crystallization of cer- 
^ymbolic types. Allusion has 
n ma^^.^in earlier instalments 
of this wqrk; t^ ijie manner in which 
the concerSiqii qJRTohn Bull and Uncle 
Sam and Sfer' aiTOsous types, has been 
gradually DiiilJ .yMby, almost impercep- 
tible degree^', .fa^tr^Sjist preserving all 
the essential wqrk ornjipredecessor, and 
adding a certain in^e^'table something of 
his own, until a c^ftajn (Urfinite portrait 
, has been produced/ 1 "peBlarient ideal, 
whose characteristic feature^Tie cartoon- 
ist of the future could no more alter ar- 
bitrarily than they could the features of 
Hismarck or Gladstone. And not only 
have these crystallised types become ac- 
cepted by the nation at large — not only is 
Uncle Sam the same familiar figure, tall 
and lanky, from the New York Puck to 
the San Francisco H'osp^ but gradually 


By Keppler <□ Puck. 

What the political cartoon will become 
in the future, it is dangerous to predict. 
There is, however, every indication that 
its influence, instead of diminishing, is 
likely to increase steadily. What it has 
lost in ceasing to be the expression of the 
individual mind, the impulsive product of 
erratic genius, it has more than gained 
in its increased timeliness, its greater so- 
briety, its more sustained and definite 
purpose. At certain epochs in the past it 
has served as a vehicle for reckless scan- 
dal-mongering and scurrilous persona! 
abuse. But this it seems happily to have 
outgrown. That pictorial satire may be 
made forceful without the sacrifice of 
dignity was long ago demonstrated by 
Tenniei's powerful work in the pages of 
Punch. And there is no doubt that a 
serious political issue, when presented in 
the form of a telling cartoon, will be 
borne home to the minds of a far larger 
circle of average evcry-day men and 
w<»nen than it ever could be when dis- 


Hf GniBm in Judite. 
(For full deaerlplion see page S4.) 



Tu>: rirAun<>iS mamikk of tii^ umvuiuk. 

By Gillam in JudK^-. (Pot full aetiiiplion Me pare 6c 



From II Papagallo (Rome). 

these national types have migrated and 
crossed the seas, and to-day they are the 
common property of comic artists of all 
nations. John Bull and the Russian 
Bear, Columbia and the American Eagle, 
are essentially the same, whether we meet 
them in the press of Canada, Australia, 
Cape Colony, or the United Slates. And 
for the very reason that there is so little 
variety in the obvious features, the mere 
physical contour, the subtler differences 
due to race prejudice and individual limi- 
tations are all the more significant and in- 
teresting. There are cases, and compara- 
tively recent cases, too, where race-preju- 
dice has found expression in such ram- 
pant and illogical violence as prompted 
many of the Spanish cartoons during our 
recent war over Cuba, in which Ameri- 
cans were regularly portrayed as hogs — 
big hogs and little hogs, some in hog- 
pens, others running at large — but one 
and all of them as hogs. The cartoonists 
of the Continent. Frenchmen, Germans. 
and Italians alike, have difficulty in ac- 
cepting the Anglo-Saxon type of John 
Bull. Instead, they usually portray him 
as a sort of sad-faced travesty upon Lord 
Dundreary, a tall, lank, much bewhis- 
kered "milord," familiar to patrons of 

Continental farce-comedy. But it is not 
in cases like these that race prejudice be- 
comes interesting. There is nothing sub- 
tle or suggestive in mere vituperation, 
whether verbal or pictorial, any more 
than in the persistent representation of a 
nation by a type which is no sense repre- 
sentative. On the other hand, the subtle 
variations of expression in the John Bull 
of contemporary American artists, or the 
Uncle Sam of British caricature, will re- 
pay careful study. They form a sort of 
sensitive barometer o€ public sentiment 
in the two countries, and excepting dur- 
ing the rare periods of exceptional good 
feeling there is always in the English- 
man's conception of Uncle Sam a scarce- 
concealed suggestion of crafty malice in 
place of his customary kindly shrewd- 
ness, while conversely our portrayal of 
John Bui! is only too apt to convert that 
bluff, honest -hearted country gentleman 
into a sort of arrogant blusterer, greedy 
for gain, yet showing the vein of cow- 
ardice distinctive of the bom bully. 


In marked contrast to the preceding 

Jengthy period of tranquillity, the closing 

decade of the nineteenth centurv wit- 


By GillaiQ In Judge, (For full description sec page jS.) 

'tM- ^ fl^il 








WllRltK AM I ATV" 

By GitUm in Judge. The famonK re. 
the Dcmoviatlu Iforly diBostrously route 


nessed a succession of wars and inter- 
national crises well calculated to stimu- 
late the pencils of every cartoonist worthy 
of the name. One has only to recall that 
to this period belong the conflict between 
China and Japan, the brief clash between 
Greece and Turkey, the beginning of our 
policy of expansion, with the annexation 
of Hawaii, our own war with Spain, 
and England's protracted struggle in the 
Transvaal, to realize how rich in stirring 
events these few years have been, and 
what opportunities they offer for dra- 
matic caricature. 

A cartoon in the August paper of this 
series, entitled "Waiting," showed Gen- 
eral Gordon gazing anxiously across the 
desert at the mirage which was conjured 
up by his fevered brain, taking the clouds 
of the horizon to be the guns of the ap- 
proaching British Army of relief. Early 
in i88g the relief expedition started un- 
der the command of General Henry Stew- 
art, and on February seventh there was 
published in Punch the famous cartoon 
"At Last," showing the meeting between 
Gordon and the relieving general. This 
was a famous Punch slip. That meeting 
never occurred. For on February fifth, 
two days before the appearance of the 
issue containing the cartoon, Khartoum 
had been taken by the Mahdi. The fol- 
lowing week Tenniel followed up "At 
Last" with the cartoon "Too Late," 
which showed the Mahdi and his fanatic 
following pouring into Khartoum, while 
stricken Britannia covers her eyes. 

The Times challenge to Charles Stew- 
art Pamell was, of course, recorded in 
the caricature of Punch. The newspaper, 
it will be remembered, published letters, 
which it believed to be genuine, involv- 

ing Parnell in the murders of Lord Fred- 
erick Cavendish and Mr. Burke in Phce- 
nix Park, Dublin, in 1882. When these 
letters were proved to have been forgc<l 
by Pigott Punch published a cartoon 
showing the Times doing penance. Both 
of these cartoons were by Tenniel. "The 
Challenge" appeared in the issue of April 
30, 1887, and "Penance" almost two 
years later, March 9, 1899. 

A cartoon which marked Ten ni el's 
genius at its height, a cartoon worthy 
of being ranked with that which depicted 
the British Lion's vengeance on the Ben- 
gal Tiger after the atrocities of the Se- 
poy rebellion, was his famous "Dropping 
the Pilot," which was published on 
March 29, 1890, after William H. of 
Germany had decided to dispense with 
the services of the Iron Chancellor. Over 
the side of the ship of state the young 
Emporer is leaning complacently looking 
down on the grim old pilot who has 
descended the ladder and is about to step 
into the boat that is to bear him ashore. 
The original sketch of this cartoon was 
finished by Tenniel as a commission from 
Lord Rosebery, who gave it to Bismarck. 
The picture is said to have pleased both 
the Emperor and the Prince. 


'rom London Judy, April ij, ligt. 


Moonshine, in a cartoon entitU 
"Aren't They Rather Overdoing It?" too 
a kindlier and a more charitable view o 
the whole affair. His Royal Highnes; 
is explaining the matter to a most hor- 
rible looking British Pharisee. "Don't 
be too hard on me, Mr. Stiggins," he 
says, "I am not such a bad sort of a 
fellow on the whole. Yon mustn't be- 
lieve all that yon read in the papers." 
The nature of the American caricature of 
the scandal may be itnderstoo<I from the 
cartoon which wc reproduce from Puck, 
on page 40. This cartoon speaks for it- 

The Emperor William and his chancel- 
lors inspired La Silhouette, of Paris, to 
a very felicitous cartoon entitled "Wil- 
liam Pihiebeard." William is warning 
Hohenlohe and jwinting to a closet in 
which are hanging the bodies of Bis- 
marck and Ca|)rivi robed in feminine ap- 
parel. "My first two wives are dead," 
says the Kmperor. "Take care, Hohen- 
lohe, lest the same fate overtake yoii !" 

The increase in European armament 
in 1892 suggested to TennicI the idea of 
the cartoon "The Road to Ruin," which 

By Lin ley Sai 

The baccarat scandal at Tranby Croft 

id the subsequent trial at which the then 

■ince'of Wales was present as a witness 

IS a rich morsel for the caricaturist in 

• early summer of 1891. Not only in 

gland, but on the Continent and in this 

ntry the press was full of jibes and 

er at the Prince's expense. The Ger- 

comic paper, Ulk, snggested pic- 

Ily a new coat-of-arms for his Royal 

ness in which various playing cards, 

and chips were much in evidence. 

other issue the same paper gives a 

in reading from Shakespeare in 

it censures the Prince in much the 

nanner that Falstaff censured the 

arry of Henry IV, The London 

ists all had their slings with vary- 

d nature, fun represented the 

IS the Prodigal Son l>eing for- 

/ the paternal British nation. 

this cartoon was given by the 

the pantomime L Enfant Pro- 

s being plaved at the time in 

^ of Wales' Theatre. The Pall 

'.et showed the Queen and the 

rent enjoying a quiet evening 

rd table at home. The Prince 

'Ah, well, I must give up bac- 

ke to cribbage with Mamma." 



appeared November stli of that year. It 
shows the figures of two armetl horse- 
men, France and Germany, each bur- 
dened with armies of fonr million men. 
riding along "The Road to Ruin." Their 
stee<ls, weighed down by the burdens 

they bear, are faltering in their strides. 
A cartoon published shortly afterwards 
in the IjDudon Fun shows the figure of 
Peace welcoming the emperors of Ger- 
many and Austria, and urging them hos- 
pitably to lay aside their sword-belts. 


From Klsddsradatscb (Berlin). (For full description aee page 4}.) 


"Thanks, Madam," rejoins K^iiser Wil- 
heim, "but we would rather retain them 
— in your behalf!" .; 

The brief war between China, and 
Japan was necessarily of a nature to sug- 
gest cartoons of infinite variety. It was 
the quick aggressive bantam against 
a hugp but un wieldly opponent, and 
one of the earliest cartoons in Punch 
iitilized this idea in "The Corean Cock 
Fight." The big and clumsy Shanghai 
is warily watching hi? diminutive foe, 
while the Russian bear, contentedly 
squatting in the background, is saying 
softly to himself: "Hal whichever wins, 
I see my way to a dinner," Every fea- 
ture of Chinese life offered something to 
the caricaturists. For instance, in a car- 
toon entitled "The First Instalment," 
London Fun shows the Jap slashing off 
the Chinaman's pigtail. Now this idea 
of the pigtail in one form or another was 
carried through to the end of the war. 
For example the Berlin Ulk offers a 
simple solution of the whole controversy 
in a picture entitled "How the Northern 
Alexander Might Cut the Corean Knot." 
China and Japan, with their pigtails 
hopelessly tangled in a knot labeled 
"Corea," are tugging desperately in op- 
posite directions, while Russia, knife in 
one hand and scissors in the other, is 
preparing to cut off both pigtails close 
to the heads of his two victims. 
Punch characteristically represented the 

contending nations as two boys engaged 
in a street fight, while the various powers 
of Europe are looking on. John China- 
man has obviously had very much the 
worst of the fray ; his features are bat- 
tered ; he is on the ground, and bawhng 
lustily, "Boo-hoo! he hurtee me welly 
much ! No peaccy man come stoppy 
him!" The end of the war was com- 
memorated by Toronto Grip in a Tableau 
showing a huge Chinaman on his knees 
while a little Jap is standing on top of the 
Chinaman's head toying with the defeat- 
ed man's pigtail. Kladdcradatsch, of Ber- 
lin, printed a very amusing and charac- 
teristic cartoon when the war was at an 

From UoonifalDS (London). 


end : "Business at the death-bed — Uncle 
Sam as Undertaker," This pictorial skit 
alludes to the proposition from the Uni- 
ted States that China pay her war indem- 
nity to Japan in silver. It shows a strick- 
en Chinaman tncked in a ludicrous bed 
and about to breathe his last. Uncle Sam, 
as an enterprising undertaker, has thrust 
his way in and insists on showing the 
dying man his handsome new style of 

Still another clever cartoon in which 
the Kladderadalsch summed up the situa- 
tion at the close of the war shows a map 
of the eastern hemisphere, distorted into 
a likeness of a much -perturbed lady, the 
British Isles forming her coiffure, Europe 
her arms and body, and Asia the flowing 
drapery of her skirts. Japan, saw in 
hand, has just completed the amputation 
of one of her feet — Formosa — and has 
the other — Corea — half sawn off. "Does 
it hurt you up there?" he is asking, gaz- 
ing up at the European portion of his 
victim. The same periodical a few 
months later forcibly called attention to 
the fact that while France and Russia 
were both profiting by the outcome of the 
war, Germany was likely to go away 
empty-haaded. It is entitled "T^e Parti- 

tion of the Earth; an Epilogue to the 
Chinese Loan." China, represented as a 
fat, overgrown mandarin, squatting com- 
fortably on his throne, serene in the con- 
sciousness that his financial difficulties 
are adjusted for the time being, is ex- 
plaining the situation to Prince Hohen- 
lohe, who is waiting, basket in hand, for 
a share of the spoils. On one side Russia 
is bearing off a toy engine and train of 
cars, labeled "A^nchuria," and on the 
other France is contentedly jingling the 
keys to a number of Chinese seaports. 
"The world has been given away," China 
is saying; "Kwangtung, Kwangsi, and 
Yunnan are no longer mine. But if 
you will live in my celestial kingdom you 
need not feel any embarrassment ; your 
uselessness has charmed us immensely." 
The Boul anger excitement, which so 
roused France until the bubble was ef- 
fectually pricked by the lawyer Floquet's 
fencing sword, was satirised by Judge in 
a cartoon entitled "The Noisy Boy in the 
European Lodging House." The scene 
is a huge dormitory in which the various 
European powers have just settled down 
in their separate beds for a quiet night's 
rest when Boulanger, with a paper cap 


Ob* of Tboawt KMt't teUr 



Prom tbe San PnmcUco Wupl 




From II PapiLgBllo (Rome). 

<^^^^g»S' ^^^^^fc^^ i^^^^^S^=i-s^Sa:^^^^ 



From the Reroe EDCfcIopMlqae 



on his head, comes marching through 
loudly beating a drum. In an instant all 
is turmoil. King Humbert of Italy is 
shown in the act of hurling his royal boot 
at the offendii^ intruder. The Czar of 
Russia has opened his eyes and his 

quarters, has joined in the popular outcry. 
The lodgers with one voice are shouting, 
"Drat that Boy! Why doesn't he let us 
have some rest?" 

The old allegorical idea of Christian 
passing through the dangers of the Val- 


features .are distorted with wrath. Bis- 
marck is shaking his iron fist. The Em- 
peror of Austria is getting out of bed 
apparently with the intention of inflicting 
dire punishment on the interrupter of his 
slumbers. Even the Sultan of Turkey, 
long accustomed to disturbances from all 

ley of the Shadow of Death in Bunyan's 
Pilgrim Progress, which has been ap- 
pearing in caricature every now and then, 
since Gillray used it against Napoleon, 
was employed by Tenniel in a cartoon of 
Mr. Gladstone and Home Rule published 
in Punch, April 15, 1893. The old war- 


rior, sword in hand, is making his way 
slowly along the narrow and perilous 
wall of Home Rule. On either side are 
the bogs of disaster suggestive of his 
fate in case his foot should slip. 

The I'anama scandals in France and 
the ensuing revelations of general poht- 
ical trickery suggested one of Sam- 
bourne's best cartoons, that depicting 
France descending into the maelstrom of 
corruption. This cartoon appeared in the 
beginning of 1893. It shows France in 
the figure of a woman going supinely 
over the rapids to be hurled Into the 
whirlpool below, 

British feeling on the Fashoda affair 
was summed up by Tenniel in two car- 
toons which appeared in October and 
November, in 1898. The first of these 
called "Quit — Pro Quo?" was marked 
by a vindictive bitterness which appeared 
rather out of place in the Punch of the 

last quarter of the century. But it must 
be remembered that for a brief time feel- 
ing ran very high in both countries over 
the affair. In this cartoon France is rep- 
resented as an organ-grinder who per- 
sists in grinding out the obnoxious Fa- 
shoda tune to the intense annoyance of 
the British householder. The second 
cartoon represents the Sphinx with the 
head of John Bull. John Bull is grimly 
winking his left eye to signify that he 
regards himself very much of "a fixture" 
in Egypt. 

The dangerous condition in which the 
United States found itself about the time 
we began the building of our new and 
greater navy was depicted in fudge by 
the cartoon entitled, "Rip Van Winkle 
Awakes At Last." It shows a white- 
bearded, white-haired Uncle Sam seated 
on a rock about which the tide is rapidly 
rising, looking round at the great modern 
armaments of England and France and 
Germany and Italy, and murmuring as 
he thinks of his own antiquated wooden 
ships of war and brick forts, "Why, I'm 
twenty years behind the age." In his old 
hat, with the broken crown, are the feath- 
ers of Farragut, Perry, Paul Jones and 
Lawrence, but these alone are not enough, 
nor will even the "Spirit of '76," which 
hovers over him in the shape of an eagle, 
quite suffice. He has his musket of 1812 
and his muzzle-loading gun of 1864, but 
in the background are those huge cannon 
of European foes and above them is the 



A PrMich CATtoon aimed at tba Pmux Conf eraoM. 




gaunt, grim figure of a helmetted Death. 
A little more and it would have been too 
late. Now there is yet time. Rip Van 
Winkle awakes at last. 

An interesting variant upon the old 
type of "Presidential Steeplechase" car- 
toons appeared in Puck during the sum- 
mer of 1892, after the Republican con- 
vention at Minneapolis and the Demo- 
cratic convention at Chicago had respec- 
tively nominated !Vlr. Harrison and Mr. 
Cleveland. The cartoon is entitled 
"They're Off!" and is drawn with ad- 
mirable spirit. The scene is a Roman 
amphitheatre, and the two presidential 
candidates, in the guise of charioteers, 
are guiding their mettlesome steeds in a 
mad gallop around the arena. Mr. Qeve- 
land's horses, "Tariff Reform" and 
"Economy," are running steadily, and 
seem to be slowly foiling to the front, 
while those of Mr. Harrison. "High Pro- 
tection" and "Force Bill," are not pulling 
well together, and with ears pointed for- 
ward, look as though they might at any 
moment become unmanageable. 

In connection with this campaign of 
1892, there was no cartoon of more in- 
terest than that entitled "Where Am I 
At?" which Bernard Gillam drew for 
Judge, and this interest lies less in 
the cartoon itself than in the amusing 
story of ita omceptiOB and execution. 

Right up to election day not only Gil- 
lam but the entire staff of Judge were 
perfectly confident of Republican success 
at the polls. To them the election seemed 
to be a mere formality which had to be 
gone through with, in order that General 
Harrison might remain in the White 
House for four years more. So a con- 
ference was held, after which Mr. Gillam 
began work on the cartoon which was to 
commemorate the Republican victory. 
The idea used was that of a general 
smash-up. with Mr. Cleveland in the 
middle of the debacle and the Republican 
elephant marching triumphantly over the 
ruins. Along these lines a double-page 
cartoon was drawn with an immense va- 
riety of detail, reproduced, and made 
ready for the press. Election Day came 
around, and a few hours after the polls 
had been closed it became evident, to the 
consternation of Mr. Gilman and his as- 
sociates, that instead of the expected Re- 
publican victory, Mr. Cleveland had 
swept the country by overwhelming ma- 
jorities. What was to be done? It was 
too late to prepare another cartoon, so 
that the ptatc already made was taken 
from the press, and tJie cartoonist set to 
work. To the discomfited countenance 


of Mr. Cleveland Gillam attached a 
beard which transformed the face into a 
likeness to that of the defeated Renubli- 
can candidate. A huge patch drawn 
over one of the eyes of the Republican 
elephant changed its appearance of ela- 
tion to one of the most woe-begonc de- 
pression. Other slight changes in the 
legends here and there throughout the 
picture transformed its nature to such an 
extent that only the most practised eye 


Prom KladdarailatBcb (Berlin). 

could detect anything that was not 
wholly spontaneous and genuine. To 
cap it all. in a corner of the picture Gll- 
tam drew a likeness of himself in the 
form of a monkey turning an uncomfort- 
able somersault. With a knowledge of 
these facts the reader by a close examina- 
tion of this cartoon, which we reproduce, 
will undoubtedly detect the lines along 
which the lightning change was made. 
Nevertheless, it will be impossible for 

him to deny that the transformation was 
cleverly done. 

Besides being the year of the presiden- 
tial campaign, 1892 was a year when the 
thoughts of Americans were turned back- 
ward four centuries to the time when 
Christopher Columbus first landed on the 
shore of the Western Hemisphere. The 
original ships of Columbus's fleet were 
being brought over the water from 
Spain ; the Columbus idea was being ex- 
ploited everywhere in topical 
song and light opera ; and it 
would have been strange in- 
deed if it had failed to play 
some part in political carica- 
ture. Gillam in Judge made 
use of it in the cartoon en- 
titled " The Political Colum- 
bus Who Will NOT Land in 
'92," It represents the ship 
of the Democracy with Mr. 
Cleveland as Columbus gaz- 
ing anxiously and uneasily 
at the horizon. At the bow 
of the ship is the lion's head 
and the shield of Britannia 
in allusion to Mr. Cleveland's 
alleged pro- English s y m p a- 
thies. The sail upon which 
the ship is relying for its 
progress is marked "Free 
Trade " and is a woefully 
patched and weather beaten 
bit of canvas. The crew of 
the ship is a strange assort- 
ment which suggests all sorts 
of mutiny and piracy. In the 
front of the vessel and close 
behind the captain are Dana, 
Croker, Sheehan, and Hill. 
Beyond them we see the fig- 
ures of Cochran, Carlisle, 
Crisp, Brice, and Mills and 
Flower. In the far aft are 
Blackburn and Gorman. Evi- 
dently crew and captain are animated by 
despair, although the gull, bearing the 
features of Mr. Pulitzer, of the New 
York World, that is circling around the 
ship shows that land is not so many mites 
away. "I don't see land." cries Cleve- 
land-Columbus. And the despairii^ 
crew pointing to the Free Trade sail 
calls back, "And you never will with that 
rotten canvas." 
In contrast with the vindictive and 



malicious character of the cartoons wliich 
heralded Mr. Cleveland's first election, 
there was a marked absence of unpleasant 
personalities in those which belong to the 
period of his second term. There was no 
disposition, however, to spare him in re- 
gard to the growing diffi- 
culty he had in holding his 
party together or his as- 
sumption of what Kepuh- 
licans regarded as an en- 
tirely unwarranted degree 
of authority. This auto- 
cratic spirit was cleverly 
satirized by a cartoon in 
Judge, to which allusion 
has already been made in 
the present article. It con- 
sists simply of a map of 
the United States so drawn 
as to form a grotesque like- 
ness of the President. He 
is bending low in an elabo- 
rate bow, in which mock- 
humility and glowing self- 
satisfaction are amusingly 
blended, his folded hands 
forming the Florida penin- 
sula, his coat-tails project- 
ing into lower California. 
Beneath is inscribed the 
following paraphrase : 

My country, 'tis of ME, 

Sweet land of liberty, 
Of ME I sing! 

Mr. Cleveland's troubles 
with his party began early 
in his second administra- 
tion. As early as April we 
find him depicted by Judge 
as the "Political Bull in the 
Democratic China- Shop." 
The bull has already had 
time to do a vast amount of uos (jvlxotk 
havoc. The plate-glass 
window, commanding a 
view of the national capitol, 
is a wreck, and the floor is strewn with 
the remains of delicate cups and platters, 
amidst which may still be recogiiizetl 
fragments of the "Baltimore Machine." 
"Rewards for Workers," "Wishes of the 
Leaders," etc. An elaborate vase, 
marked "N. Y. Machine." and bearing 
a portrait of Senator Hill, is just top- 
pling over, to add its fragments to the 
general wreckage. 

The general depression of trade and 

the much-debated issue of tariff reform 
recur again and again in the caricatures 
of the second Cleveland administration, 
especially after the Republican landslide 
of 1893. Thus, in December of that year, 
a significant cartoon in Judge represents 


Uillam in Ju.lye. 

the leading statesmen of each party en- 
gaged in a game of "National Football," 
the two goals being respectively marked 
"Protection" and "Free Trade." "Half- 
back" Hill is saying. "Brace up. Cap; 
we've got the ball," and Captain Grover, 
nursing a black eye, rejoins disconsolate- 
ly. "Thai's all very well, boys, but they've 
scored against us, and we've got to put 
up the game of our lives to beat them." 



In January the same periodical published 
a pessimistic sketch, showing Uncle Sam, 
shivering with cold, and his hands 
plunged deep into his pockets, gloomily 
watching the mercury in the "Industrial 
Thermometer" sinking steadily lower 
from protection and plenty, through idle- 
ness, misery, and starvation, to the zero 
point of free trade. "Durn the Demo- 
cratic weather, anyway," says Uncle 
Sam. A more hopeful view of the situa- 
tion found expression in Puck, in a car- 
toon entitled "Relief at Hand." Labor, 

in which Judge supported the opposite 
side, and heaped ridicule on the Wilson 
Bill, one of the best shows Uncle Sam re- 
tiring for the night, and examining with 
disgust and wrath the meagre crazy quilt 
(the Wilson Bill) with which he has been 
provided in lieu of blankets. "I'll freeze 
to death," he is grumbling, "and yet some 
of those idiots call this a protective meas- 

Mr, Cleveland's determination to re- 
turn to the South the flags captured in 
the War of Secession in the hopes of put- 

in the guise of an Alpine traveler, has 
fallen by the wayside, and lies half buried 
beneath the snows of the "McKintey 
Tariff." Help, however, has come, in 
the form of a St. Bernard, named "Wil- 
son Tariff Bill," while Cleveland, in the 
guise of a monk, is hastening from the 
neighbouring monastery, drawn in the 
semblance of the national capitol. Still 
another cartoon harping on the need of 
tariff reform represents McKinley and 
the other leading Republicans as "Ponce 
de Leon and Flis Followers," gathered 
around a poo] labeled "High Protection 
Doctrine." "They think it is the foun- 
tain of political youth and strength, hut 
it is only a stagnant pool that is almost 
dried up." Among the many caricatures 

DyGilUm in Judge. 

ting an end to sectional feeling brought 
down upon his head the wrath of the 
more extreme Republican element, a 
wrath which was rellectcd strongly edi- 
torially antl pictorialiy in the papers of 
the day. To Judge it suggested the car- 
toon entitled "Halt," in which Mr. Cleve- 
land in the act of handing back the cap- 
tured flags is restrained by the Spirit of 
Lincoln, which sajs, "Had you fought 
for those flags you woidd not bo so quick 
to give them away!" To which Mr. 
Cleveland is made to reply, "Great Scot! 
I thought you were dead and forgotten 
long ago. I only meant to please Mr. 
Solid South. They're nihbish any how." 
This is another cartoon from the hand of 
the prolific Gillam. 




From tbe LiuCige Blatter. 

p*- '. 

i^9*<* ^^f*^ 

- """1 







r ~~ 


f\ k 


A tJ 



i. -^ 


By G 111km m Jadze. 



The movement for the annexation of 
-» the Hawaiian Islands, which occurred in 
^ the spring of 1893. and which many 
a Americans were inclined to regard with 
, suspicion and disfavor, was commemorat- 
ed in a great variety of cartoons, both 
in this country and abroad. It was only 
natural that a movement which owed 
its inception to a RepuWican adminis- 
tration, should receive the cordial ap- 
proval and endorsement of Judge. A 
cartoon, dated February i8th, represents 
Columbia in the guise of an exemplary 
modern school-mistress, serenely holding 
in order her turbulent class of mingled 
Chinese, negroes, Indians, Italian organ- 
grinders, and Russian anarchists, while 
she gives a cordial welcome to the small, 
half-naked new scholar from the Pacific, 
who is timidly begging to be admitted. 
Canada, represented as a demure little 
maiden, stands just behind Hawaii, an 
interested spectator, apparently more 

than half inclined to follow his example. 
In much the same spirit was a design 
that appeared in the IV asp, repre- 
senting Uncle Sam in the character of 
St. Peter, holding the key to America's 
political paradise. "Poor little imp," he 
is saying to the Hawaiian applicant, "I 
don't see why I should shut you out, 
when I've let in all the tramps of the 
world already." Another cartoon which 
appeared in Judge was entitled. "The 
Champion Masher of the Universe." 
This represents Hawaii under the form 
of a dusky but comely damsel being borne 
off complacently by a gorgeouslv attired 
Uncle Sam, while his discomforted rivals 
are looking on in chagrin and disgust. 
These rivals are England, under the form 
of John Bull : France, shown under the 
features of President Sadi Carnot; Ger- 
many, the Emperor William; and Italy, 
King Humbert. This cartoon was drawn 
by Gillam, 

The rcKQlt ol the 
war— defeats. 




The Toronto Grip saw the matter in 
quite a different aspect, Hawaii, a badly 
frightened savage, is bound to a stake, 
while Uncle Sam, in the guise of a mis- 
sionary, is whetting the knife of annexa- 
tion, preparing to give liini the coup-de- 
grace, and at the same time waving off 
John Bull, who holds his knife, "Pro- 
tectorate," with simiiar intent. "Hoi' 
up," says Hawaii, "didn't you say it was 
wrong to eat man?" and Uncle Sam re- 
joins benevolently, "Yes — but — well, cir- 
cumstances alter cases, and the inter- 
ests of civilization and commerce, you 

know You keep off, John; he's my 

meat." The suggestion that England 
was merely waiting for a good excuse 
to step in and take possession of Hawaii, 
while the American administration and 
Congress were trying to reach an under- 
standing, was eagerly seized upon by 
Other journals as well as Crip, especially 
in Germany. The Berlin Ulk portrayed 
Queen Liliuokalani. armed with a broom, 
angrily swec|>ing Uncle Sam from bis 
foothold in Honolulu, while John Bull, 

firmly established on two of the 90i^er 
islands, "laughs to his heart's cotllnL" 
so the legend runs, "but the Yankees 
mad with rage." In similar spirit the 
Kladdcradatsch depicts John Bull and 
Uncle Sam as "Two Good Old Friends," 
trying to "balance their interests in the 
Pacific Ocean." With clasped hands the 
two rivals are see-sawing backwards and 
forwards, each striving to retain a preca- 
rious foothold, as they straddle the Pa- 
cific from Samoa to Hawaii, and each 
quite oblivious of the discomfort of the 
squirming little natives that they are 
crushing under heel. 

The fiasco of Mr. Cleveland's ill-ad- 
vised attempt to restore Queen Liliuo- 
kalani to her throne was hit off in Judge 
by a cartoon portraying him as Don 
Quixote, physically much the worse for 
wear, as a result of his latest tilt at the 
Hawaiian windmill. The knight's spirit, 
however, is unbroken, and he is receiv- 
ing philosophically the well-meant con- 
solation of Sancho Panza Gresham. 

From Don Quijott (lUarii). 


By Hamilton in Judge. 

Another cartoon of sterling literary 
flavour is that representing Mr. McKinley 
as a political Tarn o'Shanter, which ap- 
peared (luring the exciting election of 
1896. The countenance of Tarn in this 
cartoon shows none of the anxiety and 
mental perturbation of the hero of Burns' 
poems. You can see that he has full con- 
fidence in his good mare, "National 
Credit," and is perfectly convinced that 
she will carry him unscathed over the 
road to Good Times, Prosperity, and 
Protection. The carlins have been close 
at his mare's heels, however, and as he 
passes the bridge over which they dare 
not cross, the foremost of his pursuers 
has caught and pulled away as a trophy 
the tail of the steed. The tail, however, 
is something with which he can well part 
for it typifies four years of business de- 
pression. The leaders of the pursuing 
carlins are Free Trade, Anarchy, Section- 
alism, and Popocracy. 

Mr. Bryan's appeal to the farmer in 
1896 was hit off by Hamilton in a power- 
ful but exceedingly blasphemous cartoon 
entitled "The Temptation." Bryan in 
the "form of a hjige^ngel of darkness 
has taken the farmerTOthe top of a high 
mountain to show him the riches of the 
world. As far as the eye can see stretch 
oceans and cities and hills and rivers and 
mountains of silver. It is a great pity 
that so grim and powerful a cartoon 
should have been marred by that display 

of bad taste which has been too frequent 
in the history of caricature. 

The caricature produced by the com- 
paign between Mr. McKinley and Mr, 
Bryan in 1900 offers few if any car- 
toons more admirable than that by Mr. 
Victor Gillam, representing Don Quixote 
Bryan meeting disaster in his fight 
against the full dinner pail. This car- 
toon has that literary flavour which has 
been too much lacking in American cari- 
cature, and which raises this particu- 
lar cartoon far above the average in the 
same school. The idea, of course, is 
based on Don Quixote's disastrous en- 
counter with the windmill, which lliat 
poor crack-brained gentleman took to be 
a giant. The body of the windmill is a 
huge dinner pail and its arms are a 
crossed knife and fork. Don Quixote, 
incased in armour from head to foot, and 
mounted on the Democratic donkey with 
free silver for a saddle, has tilted against 
the solid structure with disastrous re- 
sults. His lance is shattered and he and 
his faithful steed lie prostrate and dis- 
comfited on opposite sides of the road. 
The Sancho Panza needed to complete 
the picture appears under the familiar 
features of Mr. Richard Croker. who, 
leading the Tammany Tiger by a rope, 
is hurrying to his master's assistance. In 
the distance may be seen the White 



L \^ 


/ / / ' ' 

Speaker Keed 
banflhe lire son 

House, but the road in that direction is 
completely barred by the staunch wind 
mill that has so successfully resisted the 
mad Knight's onslaught. 


The pent-up feeling throughout the 
United States, which reached a danger- 
ous degree of tension during the weeks 
preceding the declaration of war against 
Spain, was forcibly symbolized in the 
Minneapolis Herald. The dome of the 
national capitol is portrayed, surmounted 
by a "Congressional safety-valve." Mc- 
Kinley, clinging to the cupola, is anx- 
iously listening to the roar of the im- 
prisoned steam, which is escaping in 
vast "war clouds," in spite of all the 
efforts of Speaker Reed, who is freely 
perspiring in his effort to hold down the 

One of those cartoons which are not 
to be forgotten in a day or a week or a 
month; one which stirs the blood and 
rouses the mind to a new patriotism even 
when seen years after the events which 
inspired it, is Victor Gillam's "Be Care- 
ful ! It's .Loaded !" which appeared a 
few weeks before the outbreak of the 
Spanish -American War and which we 
deem worthy of being ranked among the 
twenty -five or thirty great cartoons which 
the nineteenth century has produced. To 
realise to-day its full force and meaning 

one has to recall the peculiar tension 
under which the American people were 
labouring during the months of Febru- 
ary, March, and April, 1898. The Maine 
had been destroyed in Havana Harbour, 
and although we no longer regard that 
event in the manner we once regarded 
it, then it was too much for our over- 
wrought nerves ; the condition of Cuba 
was growing every day more deplorable, 
and every one felt that the inevitable con- 
flict was hourly at hand. In the picture 
American patriotism is symbolised by a 
huge cannon. A diminutive Spaniard 
has climbed to the top of a mast of a 
Spanish vessel and monkey-like is shak- 
ing his fist down the muzzle. Uncle 
Sam, standing by the gun and realising 
the Spaniard's imminent peril calls out, 
excitedly, "Be Careful! It's Loaded!" a 
warning to which the latter seems little 
inclined to pay any attention. In its very 
simplicity this cartoon differs greatly 
from most of those of the school of Puck 
and Judj^e. There is none of that infinite 
variety of detail which makes an elab- 
orate study necessary in order to arrive 
at a full comprehension of the meaning 
of a cartoon. "Be Careful! It's Load- 
ed 1" like the most striking English and 


more dijjnifieil type are ihe cari- 
catures representing Spain as a 
beautiful and haughty Senorita, 
boldly showing how she keeps 
beneath her garter "a knife for 
the American pigs"; or pointing 
to her shoe on which Cuba serves 
IS a buckle, and arrogantly chal- 
k-iiKing a diminutive McKinley, 
—"you can't unbuckle my shoe!" 

A cartoon which was a fore- 
nmncr of Ihe Transvaal War and 
Ihc railway between Capetown 
and Cairo was that entitled "The 
Rhodes Colossus," which ap- 
peared in Punch December lo, 
1892. It was by the hand of Lin- 

WaLDECK RO SSEaU Fo ward, dear 
f onda. 00k ne Che o ha ghl nor the 

From HumoriBtkhe Blfluer (Berlin). 

the "real purpose in getting 
Cuba away from Spain. A 
drove of pigs have clustered 
around a huge barrel of Cuban 
molasses and are eagerly sucking 
the contents through tubes. Of a 

ley Sambournc. It shows a co- 
lossal figure of Cecil Rhodes 
standing on a map of Africa with 
one foot planted in Egypt and the 
other at the Cape. In his hands 
he holds a line suggesting the 
telegraph wire connecting the 
two places. 

Although the German Govern- 
ment refused to interfere in the 
protracted struggle in the Trans- 
vaal, the sympathy of Germany 
with the Uoers found expression 
in a host of cartoons, bitterly in- 
veighing against British agres- 
sion. Thoroughly characteristic 
is one which appeared in the 
Liisti^c Bliiltcr entitled "English 
World- Kingdom : or Bloody Car- 
tography." A grossly distorted 
caricature of \'ictoria is standing 



before a map of the world, and dip- 
ping her pen in a cup of blood, held 
for her by an army officer. Cham- 
berlain, at her elbow, is explaining 
that "the lowest corner down yonder, 
must be painted red!" Another of 
the Lustigc Blaltcr's grim cartoons, 
alluding to the terrible price in hu- 
man life that England paid for her 
ultimate victory in the Transvaal, 
depicts Britannia, as Lady Macbeth, 

vainly trying to wash the stain 
from her bloody hands. "Out, 
damned spot!" In lighter vein 
is the cartoon which is here 
reproduced from the IVicncr 
Hnnioristischc BUiltcr, showing 
"Oom Paul at His Favorite 
Sport." Kruger, rakishly ar- 
rayed in tennis garb, is extract- 
ing infinite enjoyment from the 
congenial exercise of volleying 
English soldiers, dressed up as 
shuttlecocks, over the "Trans- 
vaal net" into the watery ditch 

With the Spanish- American 
War, the Affaire Dreyfus in 
France and England's long 
struggle for supremacy in the 
Transvaal, the period arbitrarily 
chosen as the scope of these ar- 
ticles comes to a brilliant and 
dramatic close. But the car- 
toonist's work is never done. 
Nimble pencils are still busy, 
as in the days of Rowlandson 
and Gillray, in recording and in 
itifluencing the trend of history. 




and a hundred years from now, whoever 
attempts to do for the twentieth century 
a service analogous to that which has 
here been undertaken for the nineteenth. 
will find an even ampler and richer store 
of material, thanks to the group of 
younger satirists in the full blood of their 
enthusiasm, who are valiantly carrying 

on the traditions of the men of the past; 
of Leech, and Tenneil, of Daumier, and 
Philipin, and Cham and Andre Gill, of 
Nast and Keppler, and Gillam, and who 
have already begun to record with 
trenchant pencil the events that are 
ushering in the dawn of the new century. 

ecu faul'b tatorite pastime. 
Prom the WIeaer Hnmonitlcbc Blatter. 


WHEN Whist ler*s pictures were 
held to ridicule by the un- 
knowing and the unknown of 
thirty-five years ago, a cham- 
pion stepped forward in the person of a 
man of letters, Algernon Charles Swin- 
burne. His fellow artists were not so 
willing to accord him merit, although 
Alma Tadema declared **Ji"i"iy ^^^ a 
knack of doing things with his colour 
that no one else can do." However, 
neither Alma Tadema, nor Millais, Poyn- 
ter, Colin Hunter, or Leighton at all 
agreed that these things were to be taken 
seriously, and they smiled in their 
sleeves. It usually takes the finer percep- 
tions of a poet to uncover the subtilty 
beautiful, so that Swinburne's praise in 
his little pamphlet on the Royal Academy 
Exhibition of 1868 came to the many as 
a revelation. It is to be regretted that 
this pamphlet is so rare as to be almost 
inaccessible, for it contains some of the 
most beautiful prose descriptions ever 
written. In speaking of the difficulty of 
conveying in words any adequate concep- 
tion of a painted picture, and with direct 
reference to Whistler's work, Swin- 
burne wrote: 

"No task is harder than this transla- 
tion from colour into speech, when the 
speech must be so hoarse and feeble, 
when the colour is so subtle and sublime. 
Music or verse might strike some string 
accordant in sound to such painting, but 
a mere version such as this is a psalm of 
Tate's to a Psalm of David's. In all of 
the main strings touched are certain 
varying chords of blue and white, not 
without interludes of the bright and ten- 
der tones of floral purple or red. . . . 
They all have immediate beauty, they 
all give the direct delight of natural 
things; they seem to have grown as a 
flower grows, not in any forcing house 
of ingenious and laborious cunning. 
This is, in my eyes, a special quality of 
Mr. Whistler's genius; a freshness and 
fulness of the loveliest life of things, 
with a high, clear power upon them 
which seems to educe a picture as the 
sun does a blossom or a fruit." 

At another time Whistler's "Before 
the Mirror," furnished Swinburne the 
inspiration of these lines: 

"I cannot see what pleasures 

Or what pains were ; 
What pale new loves and treasures 

New Year's will bear ; 
What beam will fall, what shower, 
What grief or joy for dower ; 

But one thing knows the flower; the flower 
is fair." 

Whatever his eccentricities, whatever 
his mannerisms, whatever his affecta- 
tions, no one can burden the memory of 
the Gentle Artist with any charge of in- 
gratitude. True it is that he wrote at 
length of "The Gentle Art of Making 
Enemies," but until he felt there were 
enemies he had nothing to do with the 
making. Swinburne was no exception; 
Whistler thanked him from the bottom 
of his heart for the service of his appre- 
ciation. Of course, he took it sensibly as 
his due, yet he was overjoyed to find 
that he was not the only David in the 
camp of the Philistines. "I shall etch 
your portrait, Swinburne," said he. 
"You must sit to me. It takes the in- 
famous, you know, to make the famous 
famous." And he kept his word. Swin- 
burne came over to Whistler's house in 
Chelsea for a day, and there Whistler 
made a remarkable study of him in dry- 
point, which Mr. Mortimer Menpes has, 
or did have, in his possession. 

But alas! Whistler invaded the poet's 
own territory unwittingly with his re- 
markable little lecture, "Ten o'Clock." 
A century before Sir Joshua Reynolds 
had embodied many of the same ideas in 
his lectures at the Royal Academy, but 
Whistler had a more brilliant way of 
saying things, wherefore, though Sir 
Joshua's "Addresses" had been accepted 
without a murmur, Mr. Whistler's "Ten 
o'clock" was pounced upon by the critics, 
and by Mr. Swinburne most severely of 
all, in his article which appeared in the 
Fortnightly Reznczv for June, 1888. 
Whistler, amazed and hurt, wrote to 
Swinburne : 

"Why, O brother! did you not consult 
with me before printing, in the face of a 



ribald world, that you also misunder- 
stand and are capable of saying so ; with 
vehemence and repetition. 

"Have I then left no man on his legs? 
— and have I shot down a singer in the 
far off, when I thought him safe at my 

"Cannot the man who wrote Atalanta 
■ — and the Ballads beautiful — can he not 
be content lo spend his life with his 
work, which should be his love — and has 
for him no misleading doubt and dark- 
ness — that he should stray about blindly 
in his brother's flower-beds and bruise 
himself! . . . O Brother! where is thy 
sting! O Poet ! where is thy victory !" 

"How have I offended ! and how shall 
you in the midst of your poisoned page 

hurl with impunity the boomerang re- 

" 'Paradox is discoloured by personal- 
ity, and merriment is distorted by malev- 
olence.' " 

But Mr. Swinburne did not quite un- 
derstand, perhaps, or he had nothing to 
explain, or he was tired of Mr. Whistler, 
or the matter is none of our business; a 
reconciliation was not effected, and one 
fine morning shortly after, at just ten 
o'clock, a letter from Whistler came to 
Swinburne's notice concluding with these 
words : 

"Thank you, my dear! I have lost a 
confrere; but, then, I have gained an 
acquaintance — one Algernon Swinburne 
— 'outsider — Putney.' " 

Gardner C. Teail, 


When I reflect on all thou givcst me, 

Beloved, in the hours I cherish so, — 
The vision of love's wonders that I know 

I never might have dreameil of but for thee, — 

And when I look upon myself and see 

How in thy tender care a soul nia\' grow. 
In gratitude 1 would on thee bestow 

More love than in one human heart may be. 

But when I gaze into thy softened eyes 

At my adoring eyes reflected iberc. 
I feel. O Love of mine ! that in some wise 

I may give more than I am now aware ; 
That my soul's ardent and insatiate prayer 

May be thy lonely spirit's long-sought prize. 

Elsa Barker. 


BYRON the poet though not, per- 
haps, so universally read as was 
the case some thirty or forty 
years ago, is still the common 
property of all who take any real inter- 
est in British classical literature. Byron 
the man, notwithstanding that it has al- 
ways been open to us to know him better 
through the kindly medium of his friend 
Tom Moore, has, it is to be feared, meant 
little to most modern readers beyond a 
kind of vague embodiment of all that was 
dissolute and reprobate and quite unfit to 
be introduced into the midst of a respect- 
able family circle. Just lately, however, 
a great step has been taken towards the 
reawakening of our interest in him, and 
the showing him in his true light in the 
giving to the world of his Letters and 
Journals ; a labour of love by whose ful- 
filment both Mr. Rowland Prothero, the 
editor, and Mr. John Murray, the pub- 
lisher, have surely raised themselves a 
monument more lasting than brass. There 
we have Bvron as he reallv was, in all 
his pathetic loneliness. It might almost 
be said, in his equally pathetic littleness — 
for, with all his undoubted talents, Byron 
cannot truly be reckoned amongst the 
world's great men — were it not that we 
should remember that his faults were 
nearly all as much of the world's making, 
as of his own. Vain, self-conscious, 
petty, passionate, peevish, even spiteful, 
he undeniably was, each and all in their 
turn ; but who can wonder at that, when, 
after a boyhood during which his deform- 
ity was being constantly brought home to 
him — even his own mother, otherwise 
kind, not disguising her disgust at his 
misfortune — the world first raised him on 
a pedestal as a popular idol, and then as 
suddenly dashed him from it, execrating 
him for crimes at the very mention of 
which — weak of principle as Byron must 
be allowed to have been — even a ten 
times more dissolute man than he would 
have shuddered. What wonder that he 
became embittered, cynical, an Ishmaelite 
amongst his fellow men, believing every 
man's hand to be against him, and there- 
fore revenging himself, and at the same 
time seeking consolation for his own 

wounded feelings, by exposing the vanity 
and emptiness, which as it seemed to him, 
lay beneath the thoughts and words and 
deeds of even the best of his contempo- 
raries? What wonder, even, that 
branded as he was in the world's opinion 
with unnameable guilt, forsaken by his 
wife, and deprived of all those stays in 
life which go to the saving of a man, he 
should, in his very despair, have become 
callous to opinion, and plunged deeper 
into those excesses his natural inclina- 
tions for which had been so pharisaically 
condemned ? Rather, it would seem, does 
the blame of his wasted life rest with 
those who dealt with him so thought- 
lessly and unchristianly : for himself, in 
the nearer knowledge that we now have 
of him, we can surely have nothing but 
the sincerest pity. 

With the interest in Byron thus re- 
vived, after having for so long lain com- 
paratively dormant in the public mind by 
the publication of documents so intimate- 
ly personal, it must naturally follow that 
any further relics of the man and his 
work which may be suspected to exist 
will be eagerly sought after and, when 
discovered, as eagerly welcomed. It may 
therefore be regarded as a somewhat re- 
markable coincidence that just about the 
same time that Mr. Prothero was bring- 
ing his pious work to a conclusion, the 
MS. fragment which forms the subject 
of this article should have come to light, 
by the purest accident, amongst a bundle 
of Byron's letters found in a desk former- 
ly belonging to the late Mr. , Byron's 

close associate while they were together 
at Cambridge, and one of the few persons 
whom he counted as his intimate friends 
in after life. 

Of the authenticity of the MS. there 
cannot be the smallest doubt. Besides 
having been found, as already said, 
amongst a number of Byron's letters to 

, in itself a sufficiently reasonable 

proof of both letters and MS. having been 
derived from the same source, and filed 
awav as such, a careful comparison of the 
handwritings of the one and the other 
has shown them to be identical : while a 
further examination of the fragment side 



by side with previously known specimens 
of what may be classified as Byron's 
handwriting of composition reveals cer- 
tain peculiarities unquestionably his own 
— such as the commencement of the lines 
with capitals of abnormal size, and the 
variations between the looped and un- 
looped "f's." That the metre in which the 
stanzas contained in the MS. are written 
is one which has come to be regarded so 
distinctively as Byron's own perhaps does 
not go for so much in the way of proof, 
metres being open to imitation : but the 
most cursory perusal will afford ample 
and convincing evidence of their Byronic 
origin, in the easy, almost conversational, 
flow of the language, the ingenuity of the 
rhymes, and, above all, the tone of intense 
sarcasm pervading the whole composition 
— sarcasm of that kind in which Byron 
had made himself so eminently a master, 
hurting the worse because as a rule so 
playfully, and even delicately, expressed. 
The MS. is contained in three loose 
sheets of the hand-made note-paper of the 
time, used for the rough draft of the 
composition and the jotting down of ideas 
and rhymes as they might occur, and a 
small quarto copy book (634 inches by 
7^4 inches) in which a fair copy has been 
made of the finished stanzas, with gaps of 
one or more pages left between stanzas, 
or groups of two or more stanzas, to be 
filled up as the poem progressed toward 
completion. The title of the fragment 
and the opening lines of the first stanza 
show it to have been written round the 
coronation of George IV., a fact which 
not only helps to approximately fix the 
date of its composition, but also seems to 
afford some explanation of its having 
been found where it was found. George 
IV.'s coronation was originally fixed for 
August I, 1820, but was eventually post- 
poned, on account of the difficulties aris- 
ing through the claim made by the King's 
discarded wife, Princess Caroline, to be 
recognised as Queen Consort, until July 
19, 1821. The intended poem must there- 
fore have been commenced either shortly 
before the first of these dates, or at some 
period between the two, Byron in stanza 
2 line 2 clearly referring to the cere- 
mony as still to take place, and internal 
evidence appears to point to the first of 
these alternatives as being the more likely 
of the two. A very reasonable explana- 
tion would seem to be that the work was 

begun in anticipation of the coronation, 
and, when the ceremony was postponed, 
was put aside and never taken up again. 
At about that time we know from Moore's 

Life of Byron that was paying a 

visit to his friend at Ravenna; while in 
Byron's own letter of February 19, 1820, 

to , pressing the latter to come and 

stay with him, he speaks of a drawer full 
of manuscript, notably the last cantos of * 
Don Jt4an, which he proposes that his 
guest shall convey for him to England. 
What, then, can be more likely than that, 
when the manuscripts were being turned 
over, this unfinished work should have 
been found among them, and that Byron, 
having abandoned the idea of completing 

it, should have acceded to 's request 

to be allowed to keep it ? 

Though the poem, as has already been 
said, was obviously suggested by the 
coronation, it is not quite evident from 
as much of it as is in complete shape 
whether it was intended directly as a sat- 
ire against George IV. himself — a com- 
panion poem, it may be, to The Vision of 
Judgment — or whether simply as a gen- 
eral castigation of some of the prominent 
men of the day. Perhaps the most likely 
interpretation is that Byron had the latter 
purpose most chiefly in his mind when he 
began, but his feelings of indignation 
toward the King — his sympathies being 
wholly with George's persecuted wife — 
made him stray from his original object 
as he went on. It is not necessary to give 
here an account of all the rough notes, 
unfinished stanzas, etc., which the MSS. 
include (though some are shown in the 
reproductions in facsimile), as they will 
be given fully when the poem is pub- 
lished, as it is to be, in another form. We 
give below the completed portions only, 
with such notes as seem necessary to its 
understanding. The poem is called : 



The Coronation ! — Like a Lottery puff,^ 
I'll make the word stand forward as 
my text. 
Twill catch the passer's eye, and that's 
enough — 
I don't pretend that George the Fourth 
is fix'd. 
(Who knows how soon Her Majesty '11 
be off?^ 



^ A-yJ^^JL^^ 



It may be this year, or perhaps the 
I've not a word to say upon the matter, 
Either by way of gossip or of satire. 

(i) Line i — "Lottery puff." — Lotteries were 
abolished by 6 Geo. IV. c. 60, Oct. The last 
was drawn Oct. 18, 1826. Hone gives a num- 
ber of examples of lottery puffs in his Every 
Day Book (vol. ii., pp. 1503 et seq), pointing 
out, as Byron here insinuates, that though they 
might contain a large amount of matter seem- 
ingly of general interest, the sole gist of them 
lay in the announcement that a lottery was to 
take place, and an admonition to the public 
that it was advisable to take tickets at once. 

(2) Line 5 — "how soon Her Majesty'll be 
off." — This may refer, according to the date at 
which the poem was written, to (a) Princess 
Caroline's journey from Italy in 1820 to claim 
her rights as Queen; (h) the passing of the 
Bill of Pains and Penalties brought in to Par- 
liament against her; (c) her departure from 
England, with the consequent ending of the 
popular agitation in her behalf. 

There can be but little doubt that had the 

f^ueen been found guilty and divorced, George 
V.'s position as King would have been im- 
perilled." Diet. Nat. Biog. art Caroline of 
Brunswick Wolfenbuttel. 


I leave the ceremonies in the Abbey 
To those who see them, which I never 
(Some thought the Dean and Chapter's 
conduct shabby,^ 
Who sold their Choir at so much every 
A guinea an inch!) No, Vm not such a 
The Newspaper will tell it to us all. 
I never could, in spite of all the talk. 
Give much to see how men and women 

(4) Line i. — "The Congress." — There had 
been several Congresses held in the years im- 
mediately preceding the composition of the 
poem, but B^ron probably had most particu- 
larly in his mmd those of Vienna, Nov. 3, 1614, 
and Carlsbad, Aug. i, 1819, at the first of 
which England, Austria, Russia, and Prussia 
bound themselves together for the complete 
suppression of Napoleon, and at the second the 
same Powers decreed measures to curb the 
liberal press, etc.. both of which purposes were 
particularly obnoxious to Byron. 




Then I've no taste for sitting hugger 
We'll have a Coronation of our own. 
You shall have tickets, we'll be vastly 
Step in and see — Here is a royal 
crown : 
But whether it is made of cake and sugar 
Or Diamonds is not easy to be known, 
But then in one respect we should pre- 
fer it 
Before all crowns; it is adjudged to 


To merit! What, the Congress takes no 

part ?* 
The Holy Alliance,*^ has that nought to 

I thought I knew their principles by 

heart ; 
Can they sit by and see crowns given 

Even so. Unless some one Amongst them 

To win the prize, as some of them well 

For 'tis to-day the Humbugs have ap- 
To see their King elected and anointed. 


Where are these Humbugs? O the 

search Tve made 
To find their country ! Twas a tedious 

I've turned to every Atlas in the trade, 
Systems complete with all their texts and 

I've called all Tours and Voyages to my 

Last in despair I turned to Captain 

Hoping to see their Kingdom marked 

Somewhere near Croker's Mountains on 

his maps.^ 

(5) Line 2.— "The Holy Alliance"— ratified at 
Paris, Sept. 26, 181 5, between the Emperor of 
Russia and Austria and the King of Prussia, 
by which they ostensibly bound themselves, 
among other things, to be governed by Chris- 
tian principles in all their political transactions 
with a view to perpetuating the peace they had 
achieved — an example of humbug well worthy 
of Byron's satire ! 

(6) Lines 6 to 8. — "Captain Ross — Croker's 


Poor Croker ! It is very hard to lose 
One's Mountains! But a truce with 

maps and charts. 
For some one whispers — (Could it be my 

That Humbugs are found natives of 

all parts, 
And scattered through all nations like the 

And have, like them, great skill in little 

Yet not, like them, held up to scorn and 

They're feasted, listened to, and followed 



Then I have known some few — It is a 
Enjoys so much beyond mere tolera- 
(More even than the Catholics expect)^ 
There's scarce a post of honour in the 
Never a star with which thev're not be- 

Mountains." — In 1818 Captain (afterward 
Rear- Admiral Sir John) Ross, R.N., was ap- 
pointed commander of an expedition, consist- 
mg of the "Isabella" and "Alexander" (the lat- 
ter commanded by Lieut. Parry) to endeavor 
to make the North West Passage through 
Davis Straits. The expedition resulted in the 
rediscovery of Baffin's Bay. Ross then at- 
tempted to go westward through Lancaster 
Sound, but being deceived, presumably by a 
mirage, he described the passage as being 
barred by a range of mountains which he 
named "(Troker's Mountains," after the Secre- 
tary to the Admiralty, and returned to Eng- 
land. Doubts being cast on the reality of the 
mountains in question by Captain Sabine, a 
member of the scientific staff of the expedition, 
a hot controversy on the subject raged for 
some time. Byron seems to be here alluding 
to the weight of scientific opinion being in 
favour of Sabine's contention. The Admiralty 
next sent out another expedition under Parry, 
who returned in October, 1820, with proof that 
Ross had been too hasty in his judgment. 

The Rt. Hon. John Wilson Croker, author 
and politician, and Secretary to the Admiralty 
from 1809 to 1830. His strong Tory prejudices, 
and perhaps particularly for the caustic manner 
in which he expresses them in The Quarterly 
Retnezv, made him especially obnoxious to the 
Whig party as witness Macaulay's wholly un- 
called for attack on him in his review of 
Croker's BosweWs Life of Johnson. Byron, 
whose politics may, perhaps, be best summed 
up as " the government," here seems 
also to coilsidcr him a proper subject for, at 
least, irritation. 



To have a King then of their own crea- 
lis but one step, nay scarce a step I doubt 
When Almack's tickets fly to seek them 

Xc * * 3(C 

Here there occurs a hiatus in the fin- 
ished copy, Byron evidently being unable 
to get the next stanzas to his liking. In 
the draft, however, there are a series of 
incomplete stanzas and half-worked out 
ideas. He seems first to have contem- 
plated describing the procession of Hum- 
bugs. Then breaking off for a time, he 
turns to the consideration of the ques- 
tion, who is most fit to be king of the 
Humbugs ! 

The prosecution of this theme being 
probably for the time not congenial, By- 
ron leaves it, to turn to the discussion of 
another point in his satire — the place 
where the coronation, or the election, of 
the Humbug Monarch was to be held. In 
this direction he was for a brief period 
more successful, the next three stanzas 
having apparently been written at once 
into the copy book, without any previous 
drafting, the senuence of the rough copy 
going to prove that no part of it has been 
lost, and such alternative readings as have 
occurred to Byron being inserted in the 
fairy copy. 

(7) Lttte 3. — "More even than the Catholics 
expect." — Bills in favour of the Roman Catho- 
lics were frequently brought in without eflfect 
from 1813 to 1828. Pitt himself had proposed 
measures for their relief at intervals between 
1801 and 1804, but had given them up. 

(8) Line 8. — "Almack's" — Almack's Assem- 
bly Rooms, King Street, St. James's, erected 
by a Scotchman named Almack, or McCall, 
and opened February 12, 1765, were at first 
ver>- exclusive. They were afterwards known 
as Willis' Rooms, and have now been utilised 
as a fashionable restaurant. 

(9) Line 2. — "Easy Holland's scribbler-shel- 
tering roof." Henry Richard Vassall Fox, 
third Lord Holland, who restored Holland 
House, and there gathered round him a bril- 
liant circle of statesmen, wits, men of letters, 
and other people of distinction, giving the 
house a European celebrity. Cf. "English 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers:" 

"Blest be the banquets spread at Holland 

Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may 

carouse ! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof. 
Shall Grub Street dine, while duns are kept 


(10) Line 7. — ^"Thc Princess of Madagascar." 


Some thought no properer spot could be 

Than easy Holland's scribbler-shelter^ 

ing roof,® 
For 'twas a haunt familiar to their kind 
Where they could creep and feed and 

strut and puff. 
All had discoursed there, and some few 

had dined — 
But then my lord*s consent was not 

enough : 
There was the Princess too of Madagas- 
car— »« 
And no one had the courage e'en to ask 



The number qualified was found pro- 
And all with very palpable pretensions, 
Both civil, military, and religious, 

Some there had patents, others stars 
and pensions. 
Half those who print, and with their 
thoughts oblige us. 
The Authors of all manner of inven- 
Oxford and Cambridge severally sent 

Messrs. . . . 
With very good degrees . . . and some 


There must be room to swagger and to 
To bustle and look big or all will fail. 
Some of the places which have been dis- 
cussed are 
Enough perhaps to lodge them in de- 
And by instalments — But a general mus- 
No house is sure of a sufficient scale, 

— Elizabeth Vassall, Lady Holland, called the 
Princess of Madagascar because figuring under 
that title in Lady Caroline Lamb's novel Glen- 
ari'on published in 1816, of which Byron was 
represented as the eponymous hero. Lady Hol- 
land had great powers of fascination, but could 
make herself extremely offensive to those to 
whom she took a dislike, and was particularly 
severe in her treatment of poets. Byron, sup- 
posing that she had prompted the article on 
his Hours of Idleness in the Edinhurgh Re- 
viezv, satirised her in English Bards and Scotch 
Reviezvers, but afterwards made amends by 
dedicating The Bride of Ahydos to her hus- 



No, not his gracious Majesty's pavilion^^ 
Though that is said to have cost him 
.near a million. 

9|c :|c 3|: 4( 

Having achieved this much, however, 
Byron's ideas must have again failed him, 
for there is another break in the continu- 
ity of the fairy copy. That he endeav- 
oured to follow up his temporary success 
is evident from the rough draft, but all 
that his effort resulted in were two, what 
Lord Halsbury would probably call "sorts 
of stanzas,'' mainly composed of sugges- 
tions of various places where the cere- 
mony should be held.* At last he gets 
the idea of holding it in the now vacated 
booths of Smithfield fair, and goes ahead 
again : 

(ii) Line 7.— "His Majesty's Pavilion."— 
The Pavilion at Brighton, founded in 1784, and 
greatly enlarged between that year and 1823, 
on the model of the Kremlin at Moscow. In 
1849 it was sold to the town of Brighton for 

♦"Hobhouse and Co. spoke loud for Palace 
For Humbugs of reform. ... It oft had 
held them and again it could 
Till one objected that 'twas somewhat hard 

They should take this exclusive tone 
As though all others .... no regard 
Though they were many and at least as good 
when each 
Had styled himself the people in his speech 
Patriots and sovereigns by the self same figure 
Speak in the plural to appear the bigger." 

"Religious humbugs throw in a word for 
Clapham Common 
Dark the King's architect bid them not 

Since he could knock down all between Hol- 
born and 
The Strand . . . and rebuild it in putty 

Some thought the Penitentiary would do 
So few people in it 

If Van (?) would guarantee them from a 

Which the reformed inmates (penitents) some- 
times dealt in 

Haydon and Hoffman shew'd their Exhibitions 

And puffd their works as better far than 

The inspiration eventually dies out in the 
following rough notes, hurriedly jotted down 
to be returned to and fashioned into shape at 
some more propitious time: 

"Twas on the day when Bartholomew Fair 
had ceased — *Tis not generally reckoned lucky 
to come a day after the fair^— But in this case 
it was for all the Booths were to be allowed to 
stand and to be occupied by the novel can- 


We all I think must own a happy hit owes 
Much to the aptness of the opportunity. 
The Fair^* had ceased, and Brooks's" 
and Polito's^* 
Had summoned homewards their four 
legged community 
With Bears and Sloths with two toes and 
with three toes. 
The Booths might now be entered with 
And there they stood so handy and in- 
For all the Humbugs both to speak and 
write in. 
It is interesting to trace the train of 
Byron's thought here. His first idea was 
to write "Pidcock's or Polito's," but it 
then occurred to him that the satire 
would be more complete if he coupled 
"Brooks's" with the menagerie, treating 
the occupants of both as so many varieties 
of wild beasts. When making the fair 
copy he, either by a slip of the pen or in 
a temporary fit of compunction, again 
wrote "Pidcock's," but, finally deciding 
that second thoughts were best, restored 
the name of the club. 

(12) Line 3. — "The Fair." — Bartholomew 
Fair, held in Smithfield. The charter was 
granted by Henry I. in 1133. The shows were 
discontinued in 1850 and the fair was pro- 
claimed for the last time in 1855. 

(13) Line 3. — "Brooks's." — Originally a 
gaming club in Pall Mall, kept by Almack and 
afterwards by Brooks. It gradually became the 
leading Whig Club, and in 1778 it was removed 
to St. James's Street, where it still is. 

(14) Line 3. — "Polito's." — A menagerie es- 
tablished at Exeter Change in the Strand, on 
about the same site as that occupied by the 
Lyceum Theatre. The proprietors of the col- 
lection were, successively, Pidcock, Polito, and 
Cross. On the demolition of Exeter Change 
the animals were removed to the Surrey 
Zoological Gardens. One of the chief features 
of the collection was "Chunee" the elephant, 
whose fate, when he went mad and had to be 
shot by a platoon of soldiers, excited as much 
public sympathy as the sale of "Jumbo" in 
more recent times. 

(15) Line I.— "The Bonassus."— An imagi- 
nary wild beast, encountered by the Ettrick 
Shepherd (James Hogg), Nodes Ambrosiana, 
xlviii., April, 1850. 

(16) Line 2.— "One Caesar."— The Emperor 
Caligula (a.d. 37-41) made his favourite horse 
Incitatus Consul in ridicule of the Senate and 
Roman People. 

(17) Line 8.— "One Consul at Patras."— The 
British Consul at Patras with whom Byron 
came most into contact, according to his letters, 
was Mr. Strani. It does not seem very clear, 




Why the Bonassus^* budged, is still a 
Some blame him for not standing firm 
his ground. 
And think that 'twas a plausible sugges- 
To have him named a candidate, and 
Since there's no clause that Humbugs 
must be Christian, 
And though four legs has but an awk- 
ward sound, 
There is no act or statute old or new 
That ever has restricted Kings to two. 


Nebuchadnezzar grazed and reigned on 
four — 
One Caesar made a Consul of his 
horse — ^® 
Far longer ears some Consuls since have 
(So that the Caesar might have chosen 
Whatever comes to their long ears, and 
Our Consuls nowadays write home of 
O had Caligula preferred an ass, 
He might have found one Consul at 


♦ ♦ ♦ 4c 

Byron was evidently now wearying of 
his task, the rough draft being tempo- 
rarily abandoned, and a number of at- 
tempts which seem from their sense to be 
little more than memoranda for rhymes 
are entered directly into the copy book. 

But, leaving the intermediate stanzas 
to take care of themselves for the time 
being, he resumes his theme at a later 
point with slightly better fortune. 


When Wood" came forward all cried out, 
'tis pity 
He don't try somewhere else. This 
won't do here. 

however, why Byron should have thus desired 
to pillory him, as no complaint of his conduct, 
official or otherwise, appears in the letters, 
except that when Byron was laid up ill at 
Patras in October, 1810, Mr. Strani seems to 
have temporarily annoyed him by forcing a 
doctor upon him. Hardly sufficient cause for 
a life-long grudge I 

Remember, Wood, that Smithfield's in 
the city, 
You're known — You might get snuff- 
boxes elsewhere. 

Some even boldly ventured to be witty, 
Upon his civic or political career. 

While those who knew him better as a 

Wished that the ingredients of his beer 
were fewer. 


This was a sweeping deathblow to the 

hopes (Note. Some read hops) 
Of all the orators of Common Council, 
Who came full charged with metaphors 

and tropes 
Though some ways whispered that 

they would pronounce ill. 
See how dejected honest Waithman 

mopes, ^^ 
Like one next morning after cheery 

bounce ill, 
Squats him down quietly among the 

dumb ones 
And looks as small as in the House of 


(18) Line I.— "Wood."— Sir Matthew Wood, 
hop merchant of Southwark, became a Member 
of the Common Council 1802, Alderman i9f07, 
Sheriff 1809, Lord Mayor 1815-1816, in which 
last capacity he suppressed by his great tact 
and firmness a dangerous riot in Spa Fields 
and as a reward was re-elected to the Mayor- 
alty 1816-1817. During his second term of 
office he successfully interposed to prevent the 
execution of three Irishmen mistakenly con- 
demned to death, for which act of humanity he 
was presented by public subscription with a 
handsome service of plate and received the 
thanks of the Corporation of Dublin. It is to 
this incident that Byron no doubt alludes in 
this stanza, and it is possible also that he has 
confused Spa Fields with Smithfield, but of 
that there can be no certainty. Wood was 
returned to Parliament for the City while Lord 
Mayor and retained his seat during ten suc- 
cessive Parliaments. He was one of the chief 
supporters and counsellors of Queen Caroline 
during her troubles, thereby earning for him- 
self great popularity with the masses. He be- 
came trustee to the Duke of Kent, and it was 
mainly owinsr to his influence that Queen Vic- 
toria came to be born in England: a service 
which her Majesty rewarded by conferring a 
baronetcy upon him at the time of her first 
visit to the City after her accession. Sir 
Matthew Wood was the grandfather of Gen- 
eral Sir Evelyn Wood, V.C, G.C.B., G.C.M.G. 

(19) Line 5.— "Waithman."— Robert Waith- 
man, political reformer, was born at Wrexham 
in 1764. He came to London and speedily 
made a fortune. Under the influence of the 
French Revolution he threw himself into 



The MS., both rough draft and fairy 
copy, here lapses into a state very nearly 
approaching chaos, the remaining two 
stanzas given as perfect standing out as 
solitary columns which have resisted the 
wrath of the destroyer might stand out 
amidst a mass of ruins. 

XVI . 

For suits and services, long, hard at 

A Court of Claims has sat in solemn 

**seance" — 
Holland provides the King a knife and 

Burgess of sauces has the sole purvey- 
To find him his first dish of tea Dow 

And the Miss Berrvs-- have it in abcv- 

Hunt^^ gives an ounce of imitative ( ?.) 

Worthy, he says, the Sultan or the Sophy. 


Soaps (aye, if any he should chance to 
There are some fifty species to his 
hands — 

politics as a warm advocate of reform. He was 
elected to the Common Council in 1796, and in 
1818 returned to Parliament, ousting the 
former member, Sir William Curtis, a strong 
Tory. At the following general ejection, how- 
ever, Curtis regained his seat. Waithman was 
elected Alderman in 1818, Sheriff in 1820, and 
Lord Mayor in 1823. He was a man of no 
education, but possessed of remarkable and 
persuasive powers of oratory. 

And all with names most classic and ab- 
struse — 
Blacking from Day and Martin's in the 
Strand — 
Waterproof coats, impenetrable shoes, 

Anti-attrition if he post by land, 
Or, if he prove a sailing King, air jackets 
Much worn by those blown up in the 
steam packets. 

Here the copy book version ends. 
There is one further effort at continuing 
the poem on the inner page of sheet two 
of the draft and a wilderness of fascinat- 
ing fragments and rough notes, but out 
of them nothing like finished poetry can 
be evolved. Altogether the *'find" is a 
decidedly interesting one. One could 
hardly hope to find a more instructive 
example of Byron's methods of work. 

(20) Line 4.— "Burgess."— Evidently the 
sauce manufacturer whose tasty inventions are 
still with us. 

(21) Line 5.— "Dow Cork." — Apparently in- 
tended as a familiar designation for the Dow- 
ager Lady Cork, widow of the 7th Earl of 
Cork and Orrery. Lady Cork was formerly 
Miss Monckton, Johnson's friend (vide "Bos- 
well's Life" passim), and in after life was 
noted as a chief among the Bluestockings. 
Byron calls her in one of his letters as "that 
female Pidcock" in allusion to her passion for 
seeking out "lions" of the day. Tea was of 
course a standing beverage at "Blue" parties. 

(22) Line 6.— "Miss Berrys." — Mary and 
Agnes Berry, the friends of Horace Walpole, 
who left Strawberry Hill to them jointly. 
Mary Berry was herself an authoress and an- 
other leader of the "Bluestockings." 

(2^) Line 7. — "Hunt." — Probably Leigh 
Hunt the author: but possibly Henry Hunt, 
the demagogue. It is not clear, however, what 
connection Byron can have had in his mind 
between either of these and coffee. 



CONCEIVE of a wholesomely 
chastened Sterne with a com- 
fortable sense of leisure and 
agreeably perverse turn of 
thought, plus the standpoint of an intel- 
ligent naturalist ever interpreting man- 
kind by the light of the animal kingdom, 
and vice versa. Let this combination 

produce an impalpably light tale, pleas- 
antly set in scenes of American rural life, 
and we at once have The Kentucky Car- 
dinal. This was quickly followed by 
Aftermath, a sequel in the same vein, 
showing intensified characteristics of 
style. With Summer in Arcady Mr. 
Allen became firmlv seated in the saddle, 



riding away on his hobby, the respon- 
sibilities of heredity ; and for fear of be- 
ing misunderstood he kindly explained 
it all in the preface. Still, his story had 
much charm, interest, and beauty. In 
fact, the author had grown even danger- 
ously expert at describing. The sym- 
pathetic Sternian flavour showed signs of 
being completely superseded by Darwin 
and Herbert Spencer, warmed to blood 
heat or a trifle hotter, the. style keyed 
very high. Mr. Allen seemed to be de- 
veloping into a full fledged realist, with 
an exquisite manner veiling the some- 
what unexquisite nature of his theme. 
About this time his friends may be sus- 
pected of convincing him that Summer 
in Arcady was too '*steep," that even a 
preface recommending it as a guide to 
American daughters might fail to reas- 
sure the American mother. At all 
events, in his succeeding books, he has 
incontestably avoided steepness and a 
few other of his early characteristics 
along with it. 

His latest publication. The Mettle of 
the Pasture, opens in one of those aristo- 
cratic Kentucky homes so frequent in fic- 
tion. The usual young lady expects the 
advent of her lover. He is about to re- 
ceive the answer to a written proposal of 
marriage, and Isabel's reply is a foregone 
conclusion, since her affection for Rowan 
is such that even the patent approval of 
her assembled family cannot render his 
addresses unwelcome. She kisses them 
all, with that lavish exuberance often ob- 
servable in young ladies who have every 
reason to keep their embraces for special 
use, absolutely including in her caresses 
a regular Lady Kew of a grandmother — 
Lady Kew with an engaging exterior, 
since **The very curves of her (Isabel's) 
neck implied generations of mothers who 
had valued grace." 

Then comes a charming description of 
the girl awaiting Rowan, of dusk and 
evening falling on a pleasant, rural town 
— charming, though a little self-conscious 
and long, undeniably long. 

The young man arrives and tells her — 
(this delicate interview Mr. Allen con- 
tinues like the resourceful sergeant in 
Punch, "The company will now disband 
and immediately reform on the other side 
of the fence") — We infer that Rowan 
tells her of his past. 

This is always an interesting problem, 

how far a man is bound to enlighten his 
future wife, how far it is true love and 
manliness to deceive her. Isabel has no 
doubts ; she incontinently dismisses her 
lover, thereby giving as much trouble 
to old Mrs. Conyers as ever Ethel New- 
come did to her baffled and efficient 
grandmamma, and greatly increasing the 
daily discomforts of a maiden aunt who 
in some way, unexplained by science, 
missed the family heritage of beauty. 

After that, we see remarkably little of 
either Rowan or Isabel, as a perfect pro- 
cession of characters is marshalled in to 
help or hinder their aflfair. Prominent 
among these is an elderly judge who 
*'Praiser of a bygone time, recalled the 
great period of practice when he was the 
favourite criminal lawyer of the Urst 
families, defending their sons against the 
Commonwealth, etc." (the italics are not 
Mr. Allen's). A whole neighbourhood 
and the exact environment of each family 
is minutely portrayed by very deliberate 
narrative and lengthy philosophic con- 
versations, in which we catch consider- 
ably more than a glimpse of Mr. Allen's 
views of life. From the lofty style and 
tone the dullest reader will gather that 
some underlying current of destiny is 
revealed in these solemn pages, but un- 
less it is that collateral descendants of 
Johnathan Edwards should not cross 
with ordinary people of the world, a 
careful study of the book fails to estabr 
lish exactly what this current may bei 
And Mr. Allen can hardly mean that. 
Only think wliat the universe would 
come to if both Puritan and worldly 
strain should be perpetually strengthened 
by unmodified in-breeding! 

Perhaps his drift could be more easily 
followed if the writer had not set himself 
an impossible task, no less than clothing 
a scientific habit of thought in a garb of 
the most romantic language. This fre- 
quently causes odd statements to appear. 
"Perhaps he realised that the scientific 
son can never be the idol of a household 
until he is born of scientific parents;" 
and odder still, ^'Soldiers, illustrious in 
the army and navy." It would be trivial 
to cavil at these minor points, if the story 
itself were held in hand, if the people 
talked and behaved like people, if the 
really serious and vital problem pre- 
sented at the beginning were seriously 
and fundamentallv worked out: above 



all, if the whole possessed movement, in- 
terest. Movement, however, is hardly 
possible with incessant breaks and 
pauses, for the introduction of new char- 
acters, explained with elaboration, no 
matter how slight their function; or 
when the home of every family is de- 
scribed as if for purposes of identifica- 
tion, and where the better part of a chap- 
ter is made up of extracts from an an- 
cient book of deportment. These digres- 
sions are so frequent as to suggest Mr. 
, Allen's having started his tale and then 
• tired of it, letting himself be beguiled 
into side paths, straying off into a dis- 
quisition on criminal law, into queer lit- 
tle irrelevant flights of imagination, 
rather cheap at that, as when "The 
chairs, the curtains, the rugs, the card 
table, the punch-bowl, the other walking- 
sticks and the rubbers and umbrellas 
seemed to say in affectionate chorus, 
'Well, now that you are in safe for the 
night we feel relieved. So, good-night 
and pleasant dreams to you, for we are 
going to sleep ;' and to sleep they went." 
Now, talking furniture is sometimes 
permissible, so is a Darwinian view of 
humanity, but there can be no justifica- 
tion for binding in one cover a sentence 
in the preceding mode, shortly followed 
by another beginning : "Throughout bird 
and animal and insect life there runs 
what is recognised as the law of protec- 
tive assimilation. It represents the ne- 
cessity under which a creature lives to 
pretend to be something else, as a con- 
dition of continuing to be itself — . . . 
etc. Mrs. Conyers availed herself of a 
kind of protective assimilation when she 
exposed herself to the environment of 
Mrs. Meredith • , ," Nor can such emi- 

nently rationalistic narrative alternate 
with a page of personified clocks : "Then 
an9ther clock in a more attenuated and 
cobwebbed steeple also struck ten, reaf- 
firming the gloomy view of its resound- 
ing brother and insisting that the town 
clock had treated the subject with sinful 
levity." Points of view so incompatible 
cannot be driven abreast. No one can 
simultaneously be Ik Marvel and Ber- 
nard Shaw, and while a writer's moods 
are entitled to every possible indulgence, 
there is likewise need of some care for 
the feelings of a reader batted to and 
fro between 1840 sentiment and 1880 

Even a manner as consistently homo- 
geneous as Mr. Allen's fails to be a sat- 
isfactory medium for such irreconcilable 
matter, and in trying to achieve the im- 
possible his real gifts are squandered. 
Moreover, he himself is wearied to the 
point of actual carelessness, certainly fa- 
tigue alone can explain a writer of his 
calibre permitting himself to say "be- 
comingly raimented," or using "iner- 
rant" in the sense of unerring. 

If Mr. Allen were capable of no better, 
this gentle tale could easily pass muster 
as an inconsiderable production, read- 
able, pleasantly if rather vaguely writ- 
ten, good to occupy an idle afternoon, 
not demanding serious recognition. 

Granted his real gifts and capacity, 
granted The White Cozul, Sister Dolo- 
rosa, The Kentucky Cardinal, and Sum- 
mer in Arcady, granted these, notwith- 
standing occasional happy epigram and 
skillful word-painting, it is hard to ac- 
cept without demur The Mettle of the 

Mary Moss. 


IT would be ungrateful to comment 
too invidiously on the discoverable 
shortcomings of the daily papers, 
when they have devoted so much of 
their space to gratifying our desire to 
know what was happening in Rome dur- 
ing the days when it was the centre 
of interest for the world. Positively, 
though, "high astounding terms" have 

been tossed about with a disregard for the 
most easily attainable correctness which 
gives one, as the French say, furiously to 
think ; and in many cases a commentary 
by those who happen to know something 
of the matters involved has been felt to 
be desirable. 

From time to time there flitted through 
the despatches vague and tantalising allu- 



sions to a certain prophecy, evidently fa- 
miliar to people in Rome, and considered 
by them to have some definite and intel- 
ligible bearing on the election of a new 
Pope. It passed, apparently, under the 
name of Malachi; and one enjoys the 
thought of the conscientious newspaper 
man ascertaining with satisfaction that 
here actually was a seer of that name 
among the twelve minor prophets, but 
wondering curiously what the popes had 
to do with a Hebrew vaticination. 

Fortunately he has managed to dis- 
cover that the prophecy was not the work 
of this Malachi, but (as in Mark Twain's 
famous solution of the Shakespeare-Ba- 
con controversy) of "another fellow of 
the same name." Saint Malachy O'Mor- 
gair, he discovers, was not a Hebrew but 
an Irish prophet, who was born in 1095, 
occupied the archiepiscopal See of Ar- 
magh for some strenuous years, devoted 
to reforming the rather chaotic conditions 
of the Celtic Church, and died in 11 48 
at Clairvaux, in the arms of the great St. 
Bernard, his intimate friend and coun- 

The prophecy which has been ascribed 
to him is in the form of a long list of 
mottoes, purporting to designate, in one 
way or another every pope from Celestine 
II. (1143) to the end of time. External 
evidence, however, is entirely lacking for 
Malachi's authorship. St. Bernard him- 
self, though in the account he has left of 
his Irish friend he ascribes to him the 
gift of prophecy, knows nothing of this 
(if it were true) most striking instance of 
its exercise. The document first emerges 
demonstrably into light with its printing 
at Venice in 1895, in the Lignum Vitae of 
the learned Benedictine Arnold Wion, 
who himself is not prepared to support 
its authenticity. 

The internal evidence is not much more 
satisfactory. The seventy- four mottoes 
which cover the period from 1 143 to 1595 
are in most cases transparently simple 
plavs on the name, the birthplace, or the 
coat-of-arms of the successive popes ; in 
one case even going so far as to give the 
exact Italian family name. After 1595, 
It must be conceded, in most cases, no 
slicfht ingenuity is required to determine 
the application of the mottoes; and on 
the whole the weight of evidence mav be 
said to be in favour of the theory which 
regards the list as having been concocted 

with a view to influencing the choice of 
the conclave of 1590, and, after the irre- 
sponsible fashion of those days, com- 
mended by the assumption of a venerable 

Allow, however, the question of au- 
thorship to be definitely settled against 
Malachy, and you have. by no means de- 
stroyed the interest of the thing. It is at 
the very least one of the most singular of 
historical coincidences that, certainly 
three hundred years after the assignment 
of these mottoes, they should in so many 
cases oflfer so obvious an interpretation. 
Those which fall within the nineteenth 
century are most easily applied ; but this 
may quite well be for the reason that we 
are more familiar with the details of that 
time. The points at which a phrase may 
touch its subject are so many that it is 
easy to miss the particular contact in a 
given case. De balneis Etruriae, for in- 
stance, "from the Tuscan baths," desig- 
nates Gregory XVI. ; and so painstaking 
and usually well-informed a scholar as 
the late Lord Bute is content to say 
"again there is no explanation" for this 
phrase. When we know, however, that 
Gregory was a Camaldulite, the only pope 
whom this branch of the Benedictine Or- 
der has given to the Church, and that the 
mother-house of the congregation,, not 
far from Florence, is famous for its 
warm medicinal springs, the application, 
while it has none of the high dramatic im- 
port of some of them, is almost startling 
in its literal appositeness. 

It is surely no strained or fanciful in- 
terpretation that sees in the mottoes for 
Pius VI. and Pius VII. a distinct fore- 
shadowing of the ruthless mastery of 
Napoleon. Peregrinus apostolicus is 
the former, "the apostolic wanderer," 
dragged by the conqueror from place to 
place, to die finally in exile at Valence. 
And, besides that Pius VII. himself bore 
an eagle in his arms, Aqtiila rapax surely 
points with equal clearness to the imperial 
eagle, ravening for the spoil, that 
swooped down from the Alps on him, 
too, and carried him off in its talons to 
its eyrie at Fontainebleau. 

I confess myself unable to offer any 
solution for the enigma which belongs to 
Leo XII., Cants et coluber, "a dog and a 
snake;" and the Vir religiosns of Pius 
VIII. is too general to be striking, if the 
epithet be taken in its wider sense, while 



it does not fit if the narrower be pre- 
ferred. But when we find the name of 
Piux IX. placed against the motto Crux 
de cruce, we are thrown once more into 
the current of momentous affairs of state. 
"A cross from a cross" — as in so many 
cases, it is armorial — referring, however, 
not to the Pope's own bearings, but to 
the cross argent of the House of Savoy, 
which was destined to be a heavy cross 
indeed to the aged pontiff. 

The Lumen in cwlo, *'light in heaven," 
which follows was supposed in the last 
years of Pius IX. to designate Cardinal 
Hohenlohe ('*High light") as his suc- 
cessor; but the comet which the Pecci 
family bore in chief answered sufficiently 
when the election was made. It scarcely 
needs a word, however, to indicate the 
deeper meaning which the peculiarly lu- 
minous character of the whole reign of 
Leo XIII. gives it for us who look back 
on that quarter-century of wonderful ac- 

As in the case just mentioned, there 
were those who expected, after Leo's elec- 
tion, the working out of Ignis ardens by 
the succession of Cardinal Franchi, al- 
ready classed among papabili in the pre- 
vious conclave and secretary of state 
under the new reign, because his arms 
bore cloven tongues of fire. But Leo out- 
lived him by twenty-five years, and one 
who in those days was but a humble par- 
ish priest now sits in the chair of Peter. 
Oddly enough, in none of the many ar- 
ticles which have been written on the 
new Pope have I seen any allusion to the 
coincidence which would justify us in 
putting Mr. Hall Caine also among the 
prophets — the fact that he was inspired to 
choose the name of Pius X. for the pope 
who does so many remarkable things in 
The Eternal City. It should be a com- 
pensation to him for some of the unkind 
words which have been said about the 
book, that some one has at last noticed 
this triumphant vindication of his pro- 
phetic insight. 

It is safe to predict that the real Pius 
X. will not feel bound to follow in every 
particular the path thus obligingly traced 
out for him : but it is yet too early to say 
what meanings of the "burning fire" the 
course of his pontificate will disclose to 
us. Meantime, though it is true there is 
a star in the arms granted to him by his 
predecessor, one may desiderate a closer 

satisfaction of the phrase. For my own 
part, I am inclined to see more signifi- 
cance in the fact that the election was final- 
ly reached on the feast of St. Dominic — 
not so much because of what has been 
pointed out by the penetrating exegesis of 
the daily papers, that Dominic was "a 
militant saint," as because of the dream 
which his mother had just before his 
birth. It seemed to her that she brought 
forth a dog with a blazing torch in his 
mouth, who ran throughout the world, 
kindling a fire wherever he passed. To 
this day the preaching friars bear such a 
picture in their escutcheon, and have been 
known to call themselves, with a playful 
allusion, in the mediaeval taste, to their 
vigilant guarding of their flocks from 
heresy, Domini canes, the watch-dogs of 
the Lord. There is a parallel, too, for 
this kind of application in the case of 
Innocent X., whose motto, Jucunditas 
crucis, ''the joy of the Cross," has been 
explained by the fact that he was elected 
on September 14, the feast of the Exalta- 
tion of the Cross. 

Religio dcpopulata, "religion laid 
waste," which is the next in order, seems 
likely to refer not so much to the hand- 
to-hand conflict between the forces of 
faith and those of irreligion which many 
acute observers foretell, as to that assault 
upon the outposts which the attitude of 
more than one civil government toward 
the "religious" orders, technically so 
called, brings nearer and nearer. 

In all, there are but eight more mot- 
toes ; and then the author of the prophecy 
speaks no more in riddles, but rises to a 
solemn apocalyptic strain, to an awe- 
struck vision of the last things. "In the 
final persecution of the Holy Roman 
Church, Peter, a Roman, shall sit upon 
the throne. Amidst manv tribulations 
shall he feed his flock, and then shall the 
City of the Seven Hills be destroyed, and 
the dread Judge shall appear to judge His 
people." Neale reminds us that the last 
monarch of Old Rome, like the first, was 
a Romulus, and the last Emperor of New 
Rome a Constantine. If history repeats 
itself there is a remarkable fitness in this 
recurrence of the name of Peter, which, 
since the Galilean fishermen came to 
Rome, his successors have constantly, out 
of reverence for him, declined to bear. 

A. L dii P, Coleman, 


ONE day I went into a book store 
for the purpose of purchasing 
a copy of Mr. Pinero's Sweet 
Lavender, my one, only, and 
frankly acknowledged reason for so 
doing being a desire to read the play, to 
read it to myself, and for no object what- 
soever except my own personal amuse- 
ment, enlightenment, and edification. I 
mention all these details because I found 
it necessary to mention them, as well as 
many others, before I succeeded in buy- 
ing a copy of Sweet Lavender in that 
book store. "Why?" you sympathetical- 
ly ask. Because Szveet Lavender is a 
copyrighted play. The clerk did not 
allow it to leave his hands until he had 
assured himself beyond the shadow of a 
doubt that it was not to be employed in 
any way, shape, or manner which could 
possibly be described as an infringement 
of Mr. Pinero's rights. 

These same rights are defined, repeat- 
ed, and insisted upon on the several 
pages preceding the first act of the print- 
ed play. "Acting rights reserved," ap- 
pears in very black letters on the cover. 
On the first fly-leaf is a note which one 
is requested to "read carefully." This 
note begins by pointing out the dire 
calamities that will fall upon one's head 
if one dares to perform or represent the 
play without the "express consent" of the 
"author's agents" ; and ends by telling one 
how to go about getting this necessary 
permission. The title page bears an- 
other reminder of the fact that Sweet 
Lavender is a copyrighted play: "Per- 
formance forbidden, and right of repre- 
sentation reserved." Then, as if to clinch 
the matter, the next page takes up the 
refrain, and sweepingly proclaims "All 
rights reserved." After winding one's 
way in and out of all this red tape, one 
finds it really delightful to reach the 
preface, and read that other persons have 
done it, and that Sweet Lavender actually 
has been "performed and represented," 
not only in the United States and Eng- 
land, but also in Australia, South Africa, 
the West Indies, Germany, Italy, and 
Russia. Mr. Pinero's copyright has evi- 
dently not defeated the purpose of his 

But what of other dramatists and other 
plays? The United States statutes re- 
ferring to copyrights, give the "author, 
or proprietor of any . . . dramatic 
. . . composition . . . the sole lib- 
erty of . . . publishing . . . and 
vending the same, and ... of pub- 
licly performing or representing it, or 
causing it to be performed or represented 
by others." In the use of this "sole lib- 
erty" the "author or proprietor" in ques- 
tion sometimes docs very queer things. 

Miss Ellen Terry's recent appearance 
in America as "Madame Sans-Gene" 
called one of these things to mind. As 
we all recollect, M. Sardou had difficulty 
in finding an American purchaser of 
the rights to Madame Sans-Gene. Mr. 
Charles Frohman refused it, as did also 
Mr. A. M. Palmer and Mr. Augustin 
Daly. Finally the play was bought by 
Miss Kathryn Kidder. Shortly after- 
wards Mme. Re jane made her remark- 
able success in it in Paris ; and Mr. Daly, 
suddenly realizing that the title role was 
exactly what he wanted for Miss Ada 
Rehan, tried to secure it from Miss Kid- 
der by offering her three times the 
amount she had paid for it. Miss Kid- 
der, as some one writing about the matter 
says, "had the gratification of refusing." 
And this is the point. Wherein rested 
the gratification? Why should Miss 
Kidder have objected to Miss Rchan's 
playing Madame Sans-Gcne? Miss Kid- 
der was brilliantly successful in the part ; 
but surely this was no "firm reason" for 
desiring to withhold the right to play it 
from Miss Rehan. Was not that same 
desire, to express it very mildly, a trifle 
ungracious? Even Miss Terry herself, 
in order to play the part in America, was 
obliged to obtain Miss Kidder's consent, 
and to pay her a royalty ! 

"But," perhaps you say, "Miss Rehan's 
triumph might possibly have diminished 
Miss Kidder's." Did it, however? On 
the contrary, when finally Miss Rehan 
played Madame Sans-Gene, her triumph 
being, as it turned out, a lesser one, 
rather increased Miss Kidder's. Had it 
been otherwise, need any one have feared 
for Miss Kidder's laurels? Mr. James 
O'Neill's success as D'Artagnan did not 



lessen Mr. Sothern's; nor the reverse. 
Year before last both Mr. Hackett and 
Mr. Faversham played Don Caesar de 
Bazan without professionally injuring 
each other in the very least. 

Cyrano de Bergerac was not copy- 
righted in this country, and many and 
diverse performances of it were given; 
no one of thes^ neutralized or enfeebled 
the others; but rather the reverse. In 
New York, for instance, the public saw 
Mr. Mansfield's production, and then, for 
purposes of comparison, went eagerly to 
the Daly representation. In Boston, cer- 
tain theatregoers who otherwise would 
not have gone to Mr. Mansfield's per- 
formance, did go because they had seen 
the play at the Castle Square Theatre. 
No modern drama has been more exten- 
sively, variously, and fully acted in this 
country than Cyrano de Bergerac. And 
this, because it was uncopy righted. Had 
it been solely the property of Mr. Mans- 
field, or Mr. Daly, or indeed, any one 
person, how greatly would the American 
public have been the losers ! 

We saw Cyrano de Bergerac; and in 
some sort we all saw it. But what of 
VAiglonf L'Aiglon was copyrighted in 
America; and the entire right of presen- 
tation in English sold to Mr. Charles 
Frohman. We know the result. Mr. 
Frohman gave the title role to Miss 
Maude Adams. Miss Adams did much 
with it that was exquisitely beautiful and 
tpuching, but she did not act it ; she was 
sweet and appealing and gentle, but she 
was not the Eaglet ; she was a weakling, 
but not the weakling. In short, she was 
not Napoleon's son. Now the Eaglet 
was; and as Mr. Norman Hapgood 
would say, "really, you know, that makes 
a difference." 

Strictly speaking, we saw L'Aiglon 
not at all. But might we not have seen 
it, had the play not been copyrighted? 
Before the play was produced, we heard 
various rumors of the possibility of Miss 
Julia Marlowe's playing the chief role. 
That Miss Marlowe did not, is to be re- 
gretted not only on our own account, but 
on M. Rostand's as well. Whatever else 
Miss Marlowe might not have been in 
the part, she would have been "still the 
Eaglet"; and isn't that just exactly the 
principal thing required in the acting of 
the part in question? M. Rostand por- 
trayed one person, and Miss Adams quite 

another, and all the loveliness of the per- 
version cannot alter the fact that it was a 
perversion, and that it left us still lacking 
in such large measure M. Rostand's 
greatest play. Now, how much less 
would this have been the case had both 
Miss Marlowe and Miss Adams, and as 
many companies as desired, given L'Aig- 
lon, as Mr. Mansfield, and the Daly com- 
pany, and others gave Cyrano de Ber- 

Then, that same year, there was Mrs. 
Dane's Defence, Mr. Henry Arthur 
Jones's remarkable play. Mr. Jones, in 
pursuance of that "sole liberty" which is 
his legal right, disposed of the American 
copyright to Mr. Charles Frohman. Mr. 
Frohman apportioned it to his Empire 
Theatre stock company; and Miss Mar- 
garet Anglin took the part of Mrs. Dane 
for two entire seasons. Miss Anglin is 
an interesting actress, but the part of 
Mrs. Dane she unquestionably mis-acted. 
Her Mrs. Dane was somewhat of Camille 
and more of Mrs. Tanqueray. And yet, 
the very defence of the woman in Mr. 
Jones's play, lay solely in the fact that 
she was nothing of the one, and less than 
nothing of the other. The part was acted 
as the author did not write it ; and when 
a part is acted as the author did not write 
it, it is not acted at all — is it ? Therefore, 
we did not see Mrs. Dane's Defence; we 
merely heard the lines read, and saw 
nothing so much as what we were losing, 
and because of our copyright law, must 
continue to lose. 

"Mrs. Fiske ought to play this," I 
overheard some one say at a perform- 
ance of Mrs, Dane's Defense. "But she 
can't! it's copyrighted," was the reply. 
Alas, yes! it's copyrighted! 

"Is it not a little absurd," Professor 
Baker, of Harvard, said recently, "that, 
when the first freshness is gone, plays 
such as Mr. Pinero's farces, his Sweet 
Lavender, The Amasons, and The Prin- 
cess and the Butterfly, or Mr. Jones's The 
Dancing Girl, The' Case of Rebellious 
Susan, or even Mrs. Dane's Defence 
should be shelved or handed over to the 
tender mercies of amateurs ? " We all 
of course agree that it is. Isn't it more 
absurd, absurd to the point of grotesque- 
ness, that plays such as any of these 
should be so emphatically and superabun- 
dantly protected by their copyrights, that 
they are shelved without being really 



acted at all? Isn't this protection rather 
run into the ground? When we realize 
our dreams of a subsidized theatre, this 
ill will, as Professor Baker proves, be 
abolished. Meanwhile, we have no sub- 
sidized theatre, and we have these copy- 
right laws, which are so stringent that 
they sometimes protect a play against 
being so much as put on the stage ; as in 
the case of Mr. Stephen Phillips's 
Herod, Mr. Mansfield secured the sole 
right to play Herod in America, but he 
did not play it. No one else had the 
right; and we are still waiting for a 
stage representation of Herod. When 
we reflect that plays are primarily writ- 
ten in order that they may be acted, do 
we not find something childishly ridicu- 
lous in a law which prevents that acting? 

It is always interesting to observe the 
use that people make of their rights ; and 
in cases of dramatic rights, it is positively 
engrossing. One day, at a performance 
of Miss Maude Adams in The Little 
Minister, I innocently began to take 
down a line or two of the verses to Lady 
Babbie, which the shocked elders found 
on the minister's desk, and mistook for a 
sermon. I wished to quote the lines, and 
feared to trust them to my unaided mem- 
ory; — all of which I explained to the 
attendant who informed me in sepulchral 
tones that the play was copyrighted, that 
no word of it might be taken down, much 
less quoted. He was very serious about 
the matter, and I, of course, immediately 
desisted. Presently, he returned, and 
kindly told me that if I wrote to Miss 
Adams, Mr. Barrie, and Mr. Frohman, it 
was quite possible without being in the 
least probable that I might obtain per- 
mission to take the verses down, and 
even to quote them. Unfortunately, I 
lacked time in which to try the experi- 

Now comes the occult reason side of 
the story. Year before last Miss Adams 
had another play by Mr. Barrie, man- 
aged again by Mr. Frohman. In it was 
a poem again written by the hero to the 
heroine. The circumstances are identical 
in every particular. And the poem. The 
poem was printed in the programmes, 
and printed on the souvenir books, 
printed in the advance notices. One was 
not given the trouble of taking it down, 
and as for quoting it, one was not only 
allowed, but encouraged to quote it. Of 

course, Miss Adams, Mr. Barrie, and 
Mr. Frohman had an unalienable right 
to do exactly as they chose with those 
two poems. We can all understand that ; 
what puzzles me is why they chose to do 
as they did ! 

A student of modern drama and the 
present-day stage is hindered by the copy- 
right law to a degree which to be thor- 
oughly appreciated must be actually ex- 
perienced. Except in a comparatively 
few instances, new plays and new ar- 
rangements of old plays are not pub- 
lished; and the playgoer is denied the 
practical benefits of reading them, and 
studying them at leisure, in the prompt- 
book, in addition to witnessing perform- 
ances of them on the stage. Mr. Phil- 
lips's dramas are published, to be sure, 
and M. Rostand's, Hauptmann*s, and 
Ibsen's. A certain degree of patience 
will secure copies of Mr. Pinero's; but 
Mr. Esmond's plays are unpublished. 
One may buy Mr. Clyde Fitch's Barbara 
Frietchie and Captain Jinks of the Horse 
Marines; but The Climbers, which would 
be far more interesting reading, is not 

With new arrangements, we have Mr. 
Sothern's prompt-book of Hamlet, and 
Miss Adams's acting version of Romeo 
and Juliet, and Mr. Mansfield's arrange- 
ment of King Henry V, Miss Mar- 
lowe's version of As You Like It is short- 
ly to be published, but not her arrange- 
ment of Colombe's Birthday, Interest- 
ing and useful as all these printed ar- 
rangements mentioned are, would not 
that one still unprinted be equally and 
signally valuable; and that, not only to 
all persons interested in the acted drama, 
but also, and especially to those persons 
particularly interested in the peculiarities 
of Robert Browning's stage-craft and 
dramatic expression ? For my part, I do 
not presume to question Miss Marlowe's 
right to refrain from publishing her ver- 
sion of Colombe*s Birthday, but I do 
venture to wish that she would not re- 

That product of our present time, 
growing out of our dearth of creative 
dramatic faculty, the dramatized novel, 
is so carefully protected by copyright 
that we are unable to give it even the 
amount of serious consideration that it 
merits. Instead of the dramatization it- 
self, in printed form, we are overwhelmed 



with reprints of the novel, onibellishetl 
with photographs of the star and of 
scenes from the plav- The reader is 
famihar with them; no doubt possesses 
several of them? There is Mrs. Fiske's 
edition of Vanily Fair; Miss Adams's 
edition of The Little Minister; Miss 
Marlowe's, of When Knighthood Was 
in Floii'cr: and only yesterday I saw 
copies of Soldiers of Fortune, illustrated 
with Mr. Robert Edeson's photographs, 
exhibited as heralds, so to speak, of Mr. 
Edeson's next cngapcnient. 

When one is iu "a holiday humour," 
one hugely enjoys these books, for they 
are charming. But we are not children, 
and the drama and dramatic art arc great 
and serious forces in our national life. 
Shall we amuse ourselves with picture 
books ; and stndy reprints of vague flash- 
lights of onr players, and engravings of 
photographs of their signatures when 
we should be studying their piays and 
their playing? W'e hear very nuich re- 
garding the proverbially low average of 
intelligence among theatregoers in 
America. Some of this wc hear from 
critics, hut most of it, after all, from the 
actors themselves, and from their man- 
agers. In some measure, unquestionably. 
it is true, but need it continue to be as 
largely true? 

It is generally conceded that an au- 
dience at a Shakespearean production is 
of a higher order, as a whole, than an 
audience at a performance of a new play 
of Mr. Fitch or Captain Marshall. The 
reason for this is not only that those 
present are in many cases Sliakcspcarean 
scholars, but also that they are in all 
cases persons who possess in some de- 
gree, however small, a knowledge of the 
play which they have come to see. They 
have come, not casually, nor they 
were advised to come, but dcfiniteU', and 
from a motive which sprang out of their 
own individual preference. Certainly an 

audience of this kind is superior to one 
composed of people whom other persons' 
preferences have brought to the theatre; 
as superior as leaders are to those who 

Why should not all our dramatic lit- 
erature, good, bad, and indifferent, be as 
easy of access to the reading public, as 
arc Shakespeare's plays? Surely such 
a condition of things would develop and 
quicken, and add to the appreciative 
powers of the theatre-going public. Not 
only that : it would increase that public 
itself. The reading of plays inspires a 
desire to see them acted, just as the see- 
ing of plays acted arouses a wish to read 

It is to the interest of players, drama- 
tists, and managers to make the play- 
going public larger, and to raise its 
standards of taste. There seems httle 
doubt that a more extensive studying of 
the contemporary drama in printed form 
would materially aid their efforts in this 
direction. This being true, why do not 
players, dramatists, and managers make 
greater use of that "sole liberty," which 
the "law allows" them in this particular, 
and publish all their plays, dramatiza- 
tions, arrangements, and adaptations? 

The copyright statutes protect the 
dramatist, the ]>laycr, and the manager 
onlv in so far as tliev choose to be pro- 
tected ; and it is readily seen that some 
degree of protection is necessary. In the 
performances of plays : even in the publi- 
cation of plavs. there are rights to be 
most strictly reserved: but granting 
this, is it not a little short-sighted of 
players, dramatists, and managers to re- 
serve so many rights that in order to 
keep them, they must surrender and lose 
as many much more valuable privileges ; 
and. furthermore, involve the public in 
that same surrender and loss ? 

Elizabeth McCracken. 


By George Barr McCutcheon 

'gene Crawley's sermon. 

"'Gene, 'tain't none o' my business, 
understand but 'pears to me you ain't 
doin' a very sensible thing in hirin* out 
to Jestine Sherrod like this. She'd 
oughter have some one else down there 
*tendin' to the place. You ain't the feller, 
take it jest how you please. She's all 
alone, 'cept ole Mis.' Crane, an' folks is 
boun' to talk, dang 'em. I don't think it's 
jest right fer you to be there." 

"There ain't nothin' wrong in it, 
Martin. There ain't a thing. Do you 
think there is?" 

"We— 11, no, not that, 'zackly, but it 
gives people a chanst to say there's some- 
thin' wrong," said Mr. Grimes, shifting 
his feet uncomfortably. The two men 
were standing in the farmer's barnyard 
about a fortnight after it became gen- 
erally known in the community that Jud 
had gone to Europe. "Y'see, ever'body 
reecollects that nasty thing you said 
down to the tollgate the night o' the 
weddin'. 'Tain't human natur' to fergit 
sitch a brag as that wuz. What a gosh- 
amighty fool you wuz to talk like — " 

"O, I know 1 wuz, I know it. Don't 
be a throwin' it up to me, Martin. I 
wish to God I'd never said it. I wish I'd 
died while I wuz sayin' it so's I could 'a' 
gone right straight to hell to pay fer it. 
I wuz crazy mad, Martin, that's what I 
wuz. Ever'body knows I didn't mean it, 
don't they ?" 

"We — 11, mos' ever'body knows you 
couldn't kerry out yer boast, no matter 
ef you meant it er not. Rut, you c'n see 
fer yerself 'at your workin' over on her 
place ain't jest the thing, with all the 
talk 'at went on a couple year ago. Like 
's not ever'thing's all proper an' they 
ain't no real harm in it, but — " 

"Look here, Martin Grimes, do you 
mean to insinyate that it ain't proper? 
'Cause ef you do, somethin's goin' to 
drap an' drap all-fired hard," exclaimed 
'Gene, his brow darkening. 

"Don't be so tetchy, 'Gene. I ain't in- 
sinyated a blame thing; cain't you see 
I'm tryin' to lay the hull case afore you 
clearly? 'Tain't no use beatin' 'round 
the bush, nuther. She's boun' to be com- 

Crawley stared long and silently at a 
herd of cattle on the distant hillside. 

"Martin," he said, at last, "that girl's 
made a different man of me. I ain't the 
same ornery cuss I wuz a couple of year 
ago. Anybody c'n see that. I ain't 
tetched a mouthful of whiskey fer purty 
nigh a year. Seems to me I don't keer a 
damn to swear — I mean I don't keer to 
swear any more. That one slipped out 
jest because talkin' to you like this kind 
o' takes me back to where I used to be. 
I go to church purty reg'lar, don't I? 
W^ell, it's all her. She's made a differ- 
ent man of me, I tell you, an' I wouldn't 
do her no wrong ef the hull world de- 
pended on it. She's the best woman that 
ever lived, that's what she is. An' she 
keers more fer Jud Sherrod 's little finger 
than fer all the balance of the world put 
together. There ain't no honester girl in 
Clay township, an', darn me, if ever I 
hear anybody say anything mean a'gin 
her, I'll break his neck. I'm helpin' her 
over on the place an' she's payin' me 
wages, jest like she'd pay any hand, an' 
1 don't know whose business it is but 
her'n an' mine." 

''1 know all that, 'Gene, but people 
don't — " 

"Who in thunder is the people? A lot 
of old women who belong to church an' 
go to sociables jest to run one 'nother 
down, an' all the time there ain't one- 
tenth of 'em that ain't jealous of the 
women they think's goin' wrong. They're 
so derned selfish an' evil minded that 
they cain't even imagine another woman 
doin' somethin' that ain't right without 
feeling' jealous as blazes an' gittin' dis- 
satisfied with ever'thing around 'em. 
You cain't tell me nothin' about these old 
scarecrows that keep a sign hangin' out 
all the time — *virture is its own reward.' 
Say, Martin, you don't suppose that I'm 



the only hired hand workin' around these 
parts, do you?" snarled 'Gene, malevo- 

"No, course not, but — what you mean, 
'Gene ?" 

*'rm not the only man that's workin* 
on a farm where there's a woman, am 
I ?" grated 'Gene. 

"Lookee here, 'Gene, 'splain yerself. 
That don't sound very well," exclaimed 
Martin, turning a shade paler and glanc- 
ing uneasily toward his own house. 

"There ain't nothin' to explain, but it's 
somethin' to think about, Martin. You 
c'n tell that to all the old women you see, 
too, an' mebby they won't do so much 
thinkin' about Justine Van. That's all. 
If Fd waited fer any of these other 
women 'round here to do me a good turn, 
I'd be worse than I ever wuz. T'ain't in 
'em, Martin ; all they c*n do is to cackle 
an' look around to see if they got wings 
sproutin' on theirselves. They don't 
think of nobody else, unless they think 
bad. Justine ain't that sort, I want to 
tell you. Here I wuz, her enemy, an' no 
friend of her husband's. I'd done a hull 
lot o' meah things to her an' him. But 
did she hold it up ag'in me when the 
chanst come fer her to do some good fer 
me? No, sir, she didn't. She tole me 
that I had the makin' of a man in me an' 
then she tuck holt of me an' give me a 
new start. She said I wuz a beast an' a 
drunkard an' a coward an' a hull lot o' 
things, but she said I could be a good 
man if I'd try. So I tried an' I hadn't 
no idee it wuz so easy. She done it an' 
she don't keer no more fer me than she 
does fer that spotted calf of your'n over 
yonder. Now, I want to tell you some- 
thin' Martin. She needs me down there 
on the place an' I'm goin' to stay there 
till she tells me to quit. Then I'm goin' 
to quit like a man. It don't make no dif- 
ference what I said two er three year ago, 
either, 'cause I'm not the same man I 
wuz then. If Clay township don't like 
the way I'm doin', let 'em say so an' be 
done with it. Then we'll settle some 

Grimes shuffled his feet frequently and 
expectorated nervously without regard to 
direction or consequences during this un- 
usually long speech. Mrs. Grimes was 
recognised as one of the most ravenous 
gossips in the neighborhood and her hus- 
band knew it. Yet he was too much in 

dread of Crawley's prowess to take up 
the cudgel in her defense. He had also 
suspected, years before, that she was in 
love with one of his "hired men" ; hence, 
his uneasiness under 'Gene's implica- 

"You better not talk too much, 'Gene," 
he said at last. "I'm yer friend but I 
cain't stave off the hull township fer you. 
Ef it gits out that you're makin' sitch 
bold talk an' braggin' — " 

"Braggin'l Who's braggin'? I mean 
ever' word I said an' a heap sight more, 
too. You jest tell 'em what I said an' 
let 'em come to me. But if any of 'em 
goes to Justine with their sneakin' tales 
an' their cussed lies, I'll not stop to see 
whether it's a man er a woman. I'll 
wrap 'em up in a knot an' chuck 'em out 
into the middle of the lane." 

"Now, that wouldn't be a wise thing 
to do, don't you see?" said Grimes, grow- 
ing more and more uncomfortable. At 
this point it may be announced that Mr. 
Grimes had been deputized by his wife to 
convince 'Gene of the error of his way 
and of the wrong he was doing Justine. 
"You'd have the constables down here in 
two shakes of a dead lamb's tail." 

"Old Bill Higgins an' Randy Dixon? 
They wouldn't try to arrest me if I wuz 
tied hand an' foot an' chloroformed into 
the bargain. But, say : there ain't no use 
talkin' about this thing. I want the folks 
to know that I'm goin' to stick to Justine 
an' help her out as long as I can. I'm 
doin' it honest an' I'm gittin' paid fer it 
like anybody else. Martin, I don't want 
to have 'em say anything ag'in her. She's 
as good as gold an' we all oughter be 
proud of her. Jud's in hard luck, I 
reckon. Leastwise he looked it last time 
he wuz here. Mebby he'll git on his feet 
over there in Europe, an' then he c'n do 
the right thing by her. But, I'll tell you, 
Martin, we all want to stick to her now. 
She's all broke up an' I c'n see she's dis- 
couraged. She wouldn't let on fer the 
world, alius bright an' happy, but old 
Mrs. Crane told me t'other day that she'd 
ketched her cryin' more'n onct. That 
gosh-damed little farm of her'n ain't 
payin' a thing, an* I want to tell you she 
needs sympathy 'nstead of hard words." 

"They ain't a soul ever said anything 
ag'in her, 'Gene," broke in the other. 
"But they're apt to ef it goes on. But, 



go ahead; you know best, *Gene, you 
know best." 

"I don't know best, either. That's the 
trouble. I c*n talk to you an' sweat about 
it, but I don't know what to do. I'm 
awful worried about it. Of course, if 
any responsible person ever said any- 
thing wrong she could sue him in the 
courts, somehow er other, but she'd hate 
to do that," said 'Gene, reflectively. 
Plainly, he saw the girl's position better 
than his loyalty would allow him to ad- 
mit. Martin started violently at the 
word "sue" and was from that moment 
silenced. He lived in terror of a law-suit 
and its dangers. 

"D'you suppose she'd go to court?" 

"She wouldn't want to, but me — me 
an' — me an' Jud could coax her to do it," 
said 'Gene, shrewd in an instant. "I 
don't reckon folks remember about the 
courts, do they?" 

Martin pulled his nerves together suf- 
ficiently to send a long stream of tobacco 
juice into a knot-hole in the fence, fifteen 
feet away, and said : 

"Well, they'd oughter remember, by 
ginger !" 

After a few minutes of rather ener- 
getic chewing for him Martin rarely 
chewed tobacco vigorously because of the 
extravagance) he calmly reopened the 

"When are you liable to git through 
plantin' over there ?" 

"In a couple of days, if it keeps dry." 

"I'll let Bud Jones go over an' help 
you ef vou need him." 

"O, I c'n git along. I guess." 

"I wuz thinkin' a little of sendin' Bud 
over this week with a couple bushels of 
potaters fer Jestine. Never seen sitch 
potaters in my born days." 

"I think she's got a plenty, Martin." 

"You don't say so. Well, how's she 
oflF fer turnips?" 

"She could use a few bushels of tur- 
nips an' some oats an' little corn, I 
reckon. Dern it, I believe she's jurty 
nigh out of hay, too," said 'Gene, soberly. 

"Tell her I'll drive over this week with 
some," said Martin, wiping his brown. 

"She'll pay you fer the stuff when you 
take it over." 

1 didn't 'low to ask fer pay." 
'Well, she ain't askin' fer favors, 



Martin stared down the road for some 

"But I got more'n I c'n use," he said. 

"If that's the case you c'n send it over 
an' she'll be mighty thankful. An' say, 
I guess I c'n use Bud to-morrow an' next 

"We're purty busy an' I don't see 

"Don't send him, then. You said you'd 
thought of it, you know." 

"I'll send him, though, come to think 
of it. You say pore little Jestine 'pears 
to be discouraged ?" 

"Kinder so, I should say. Poor little 
girl, she's — " here he leaned over and 
uttered an almost inaudible bit of infor- 
mation. Martin's eyes bulged and he 

"The devil you say! Well, I'll be 
danged 1" 

'Gene started down the lane, his jaws 
set and hard for the moment. Suddenly 
he turned, and, with the first chuckle of 
mirth Grimes had heard from him that 
day, said : 

"Don't fergit to send over them pota- 
ters, too, Martin." 

Then he trudged rapidly away, leaving 
Mr. Grimes in a state bordering on col- 
lapse. Between the startling bit of in- 
formation 'Gene had given him, the hint 
at lawsuits, the insinuation against other 
women in the locality and his own as- 
tounding liberality he was the most thor- 
oughly confused farmer in Clay town- 
ship. He went to the house and talked 
it all over with his wife and the words 
of advice that he gave to her savored 
very much of the mandatory. He 
dreamed that night that some one sued 
him for damages and got judgment for 
$96,000. The next day he sent a wagon- 
load of supplies to Justine, after which 
he told his wife she could not have the 
new "calico" he had been promising for 
three months. 

Eugene Crawley's position on the old 
Van farm was queer. He was a self- 
appointed slave, as it were. True, he 
was paid wages and he was given his 
meals in the little kitchen where Justine 
and Mrs. Crane ate. That privilege was 
the one recompense that made slaverv a 
charm. In his undisciplined heart thore 
had grown a feeling of reverence for the 
wife of Jud Sherrod that displaced the 
evil love of the long ago. His love, in 



these days, was pure and hopeless. He 
thought only of lifting the burden that 
another's love had left upon her should- 
ers. The 'Gene Crawley of old was no 
more. In his place was a simple, devoted 
toiler, a lowly worshipper. 

Against her will he had attached him- 
self to the farm, and at last he had be- 
come indispensable. The fear with 
which she had once regarded him was 
gone with the wonderful alteration in 
his nature. Innocent, unsuspecting child 
that she was, she thought that his love 
had died and that it could never be 
awakened. She did not know the depths 
of his silent adoration. 

At nightfall each day he trudged back 
to Martin Grimes's barn to sleep, and in 
the morning, before sunrise, he was at 
his post of duty again. So thoughtful 
was he of her welfare that he never 
lingered after the night's chores were 
done, realizing that the least indiscretion 
would give rise to neighborhood gossip. 
Their conversations were short but al- 
ways free and friendly. They met only 
as necessity obliged and nothing could 
have been more decorous than their con- 
duct. Yet 'Gene went to his little room 
in the barn that night with a troubled 

"Sure they cain't talk about her," he 
thought. '*She's an angel, if there ever 
wuz one." 

Months before he had said aloud to 
himself, off in the field, as he looked 
toward the house in which his fair em- 
ployer lived : 

"I wouldn't harm her by word er 
thought fer all heaven. She's honest an' 
I'm goin' to be. She's Jud's wife an' 
she loves him an' I ain't got no right to 
even think of lovin' her. 'Gene Crawley, 
you gotter give up. You gotter be 

And he was honest. 



For four months Mr. and Mrs. Dudley 
Sherrod wandered over Europe. They 
saw Paris, Venice, Rome, Amsterdam, 
Brussels, Vienna, and quaint German 
towns, unknown to most American tour- 
ists. Celeste had visited the Old World 

many times before, but it was all new 
to her now; she was traveling with the 
man she loved. To Sherrod, the won- 
ders of the land he had never hoped to 
see were a source of the most intense de- 
light. His artistic, romantic nature 
leaped under the spur of awakening 
forces; his love for the beautiful, the 
glorious, the quaint and the curious was 
satiated daily. He lived in the perfect 
glory of the present, doggedly disregard- 
ing the past and braving everything that 
the future might bring forth, good or 

Basking in the love of this fair girl, 
adoring her and being adored, he lost all 
vestige of conscience. The shadow that 
hung over him on the wedding day 
drifted away into forgetfulness, and he 
saw nothing but the pleasures of life. A 
dread that the law would surely find him 
out and snatch him from the love and re- 
spect of two women, devastating the 
lives of both, was dissipated by degrees 
until scarcely a line across his brow was 
left to mark its course within. 

Once a week he sent loving letters 
home to Justine, letters full of tenderness 
and affection. Often a mist of tears 
came to his eyes as he thought of her, 
wishing that she too might be with them 
on this happy tour. At times he saw his 
selfishness and was ashamed, but the 
brightness of life with Celeste overcame 
these touches of remorse and he sank 
back into the soft cushions of bliss and — 
forgot. Letters from Justine were rare 
and he kissed them passionately and read 
them t)ver and over again — before he de- 
stroyed them. Here and there the Sher- 
rods wandered, the rich and loving wife's 
purse the provider, dawdling and idling 
in dreamland. 

At last she confessed to him that she 
was tired of the continent and was eager 
to get back to Chicago, where she could 
have him all to herself in the home over 
which he was to be master. So deep in 
luxury and forgetfulness was he, that 
future pain seemed impossible, and he 
did not even oppose her wish. But as 
the steamer drew away from the dock he 
grasped the rail and for an instant his 
body turned numb. 

"Back to America!" he gasped, realiz- 
ing at last. "Mv God ! How long can I 
hold it off ? What will be the end of it ?" 

In the meantime. Clay township was in 



a turmoil of gossip. Poor Justine was 
discussed from one prayer service to an- 
other, and with each succeeding session 
of the gossips the stories were magnified. 
Quite unconscious of the storm brewing 
about her innocent head, she struggled 
painfully on with her discouraging work, 
the dullness of life brightened once a 
week or so by letters from across the sea. 
Every night she prayed for the safe re- 
turn of th^t husband-lover and there was 
no hour that did not find her picturing 
the delights of meeting after these 
months of separation. 

She heard nothing of the wedding that 
Parson Marks and Jim Hardcsty dis- 
cussed months before. The few Glen- 
ville and Clay township people who saw 
the account in the papers may have re- 
garded the coincidence in names remark- 
able, but attached no other significance 
to the affair. Certainly no one men- 
tioned it to Justine. Jud's letter swept 
the doubts and fears from the mind of 
Mr. Marks and the incident was forgot- 

From her face there began to disap- 
pear the glorious colors of health ; the 
bright eyes were deep with a new wist- 
fulness. But her strong young figure 
never drooped. 

At last *Gene Crawley became aware 
of the gossip. He saw the sly looks, the 
indirect snubs, the significant pauses in 
conversations when he or she drew nigh. 
For weeks he controlled his wrath, grind- 
ing his teeth in secret over the injustice 
of it all. In the end, after days of inde- 
cision, he told himself that but one course 
was left open to him. He must leave the 

But there was left the task of telling 
Justine of his resolve. Would she de- 
spise him for deserting her in the hour 
of greatest need ? He could not tell her 
that scandal was driving him away for 
her sake. To let her know that the 
neighbors had accused her of being false 
to Jud would break her heart. To run 
away surreptitiously would be the act of 
a coward; to tell her the real reason 
would be cruel ; to leave designedly for 
a better offer of wages would be base 
under the circumstances. In the last few 
weeks she had depended on hirn for 
everything ; he had become indispensable. 

While he was striving to evolve some 
skillful means of breaking the news to 

her gently, the populace of Clay town- 
ship made ready to take the matter in 
its own hands. Parson Marks, to whom 
nearly every member of his congregation 
had come with stories of misconduct at 
the little place down the lane, finally felt 
obliged to call a general meeting to con- 
sider the wisest plan of action in the 
premises. The word was passed among 
the leading members of the church, and 
it was understood that a secret meeting 
would be held in the pastor's home on a 
certain Thursday night. Justine had a 
few true friends and believers, but they 
were not asked to be present ; no word 
was permitted to reach the ears of either 

That Thursday night came and with it 
also came to 'Gene's troubled mind the 
sudden inspiration to go before the young 
minister and lay bare his intentions, ask- 
ing his help and advice. 

The ''neighbors" timed their arrival 
at the parson's home so thoughtfully that 
darkness had spread over the land long 
before the first arrival drew up and 
hitched his team in the barn-lot. By half 
past eight o'clock there were twenty im- 
maculate souls in the parlor and sitting- 
room of the parsonage, and Mrs. Ed 
Harbaugh, the president of the Women's 
Home Missionary Society, was called 
upon to state the object of the meeting, 
Mr. iMarks observing that he preferred 
to sit as a court of appeals. A stiffer- 
backed gathering of human beings never 
assembled under the banner of the Al- 
mighty, ready to do battle for Christian- 
ity. There was saintly courage in every 
face and there was determination in 
every glance of apprehension that greeted 
the creaking of a door or the nicker of a 
horse. When Jim Hardesty, while try- 
ing to hitch his horse to a fence post in a 
dark corner of the barn-lot, exploded as 
follows: **Whoa, damn ye!" everybody 
shivered, and Mrs. Bolton said she won- 
dered "how 'Gene Crawlev heerd about 
the mcetin'." Mr. Hardesty never could 
understand why his entrance a few min- 
utes later was the signal for such joy. 

''It's our bounding duty," said Mrs. 
Harbaugh in conclusion, *to set right 
down as a committee an' directate a let- 
ter to Jud Sherrod, tellin' him jest how 
things is bein' kerried on over to his 
house. That pore feller is off yander in 
Europe or Paris some'ere's, doin' his best 



I set down in front an' believe you're an 
honest man an' mean what you say. 
That's what you preach, but if God lets 
such pups as you *tend to His business 
down here He's a fool an' a sensible man 
had better steer clear of Him. The size 
of the matter is, you meal-mouthed 
sneak, God made a mistake when you 
was born. He thought you'd be a fish- 
worm an' he give you a fish- worm's soul. 
What are vou goin' to do with that let- 

*'Eugenc, will you let me speak earn- 
estly to you for a few moments?" asked 
the young parson. He felt, uncomfort- 
ably, that he might be blushing. 

**You'll have to speak earnest an' 
quick, too," returned the other. **Don't 
talk to me about my soul, parson, an' 
all that stuff. I c'n take care of my soul 
a heap sight better'n you kin, I've jest 
found out. So, cut it short. What you 
got to say for yourself, not fer me?" 

*'It is time vou and she were made to 
understand the penalty your awful sin 
will bring down upon — " 

*'Stop! You c'n say what you please 
about me, but if you breathe a sound 
ag'in her I'll fergit that you're a preach- 
er. It won't do no good to plead with 
you people, but all I c'n say is that she 
don't deserve a single harsh word from 
any one. She's the best woman I ever 
knowed, that's what she is. She's been 
one of your best church people an' she's 
as pure as an angel. That's mor'n you ' 
c'n sav fer another man er woman in 
your congregation. Don't look mad, 
Mrs. Grimes. I mean what I say. You 
are the meanest lot of people that God 
ever let live, if you keep on try in' to 
make her out bad. This thing's gone fer 
enough. I know I'm not a good man — I 
ain't fit to live in the same world with 
her — ut she's been my friend after all 
the ugly things I done to her an' Jud. I 
come here to-night, parson, to tell yon I 
wuz goin' to leave her place an' to ask 
you to tell her why. Now, I'm going' to 
stay an' I'm goin' to make you an' all the 
rest of these folks go over an' tell her 
you're her friends. 

"I'll do nothing of the sort," snapped 
Mrs. Harbaugh. 

''Yes, you will. Mis' Marbaugh, an' 
you'll do it to-morrow," said 'Gene, his 
black eyes narrowing and gleaming at 

"Mr. Crawley, you must certainly lis- 
ten to reason," began the preacher, softly. 

"Not until you listen to it yerself," 
was the answer. "You are committin* 
an outrage, an' you've got to stop it right 
now." He strode across to where Miss 
Cunningham sat. Pointing his finger at 
the partially written letter, he said: 
'Tear that letter up! Tear it up!" 

The paper crackled and fluttered to 
the floor from the secretary's nerveless 
fingers. He picked it up himself and 
scattered the pieces about the table. 

"Now, how many of you are goin' to 
kerry this thing any further?" he de- 
manded, wheeling about and glaring at 
the speechless crowd. There was not a 
sign of response. "How many of you 
are goin' to treat her fair?" he went on. 

"We intend to treat her fair," said Mr. 

"Do vou call it fair to write a letter 
like that ?" 

" 'Gene's right, by ginger," cried Jim 
Hardesty. "Shake, 'Gene. I've been 
ag'in this thing all along." 

"I never did approve of it," said Mr. 

"Nobodv could ever make me believe 
'at Justine ever done anything wrong," 
said Mr. Rossman, emphatically. "You 
know how I ojected to this thing, Maria." 

The women looked nervous and ready 
to weep. 

"Mebby we've been too hasty," said 
Mrs. Harbaugh, in a whining tone. 

"I'm goin' over to Justine's tommory, 
pore girl," said Mrs. Bolton. 

"I'm goin' home now," said 'Gene, 
"but I want to say jest this : I'll see that 
she gits fair play. Now, you mark that, 
every one of you. An' as fer you, par- 
son, I want to say, bad as I am, that I'm 
too good a man to got inside your church 
ag in. 

He went out, slamming the door be- 
hind him. After a long pause, James 
Hardesty exploded : 

"Who in thunder called this meetin', 
anyhow ?" 



On the day following the meeting at 
the home of Parson Marks, Justine was 
surprised to receive visits .from half a 



dozen of the leaders in the church so- 
ciety. Mrs. Harbaugh came first, fol- 
lowed soon afterwards by Mrs. Grimes. 
The **chairman" was graciousness itself. 
Crawley, from a field nearby, saw the 
women drive up, one by one, and a grim 
smile settled on his face. 

**rd like to be in the front room jest 
to hear what the old hens say to Jestine, 
**he mused; **I*11 bet she's the sur- 
prisedest girl in the world. I hope they 
don't say anything 'bout that meetin' an' 
what I done to 'em last night. It 'u'd 
hurt her terrible." 

Properly subdued, Mrs. Harbaugh did 
a surprising thing — and no one was more 
surprised than she. On the way over to 
Justine's place the ex-chairman had been 
racking her brain for a motive to explain 
the visit — the first she ever had accorded 
Justine. Mrs. Harbaugh, it may be said, 
regarded herself as ''quality," and was 
particular about her associates. 

Mrs. Sherrod was very uncomfortable 
and so was Mrs. Harbaugh, during the 
first five minutes of that visit. They sat 
in the cold, dark little *'front room," fac- 
ing one another stiffly, uttering disjointed 
commonplaces. Before Mrs. Harbaugh 
realized what she was doing, she com- 
mitted herself to an undertaking that as- 
tonished the whole neighborhood. 

"Justine, I've been thinking of giving 
a sociable an' an oyster supper next week 
an* I want you to be sure to come," she 
said in desperation, after a long and try- 
ing silence. 

Now, the truth is, such a thought had 
not entered Mrs. Harbaugh*s head until 
that very moment. She felt called upon 
to do something to prove her friendship 
for the girl, but, now that she had done 
it, she would have given worlds to recall 
the impulse and the words. In her nar- 
row heart she believed the worst of Jus- 
tine. How could she reconcile her con- 
science to this sudden change of front? 
She had been the most bitter of denuncia- 
tors — in fact, she herself had suggested 
the meeting of the night before. And 
now she was deliberately planning a ''so- 
ciable" for the sole purpose of asking 
the girl to be one of her guests! Mrs. 
Harbaugh w^as beginning to wonder if 
her mind was affected. 

Justine was speechless for a moment 
or two. She was not sure that she had 
heard aright. 

'*A sociable, Mrs. Harbaugh?" she 

"And an oyster supper," added the 
other, desperately. 

"I — I should like to come, but — I am 
not sure that I can," said Justine, doubt- 
fully. She was thinking of her scant 

"Oh, you must come. I won't take 
*no' for an answer," cried Mrs. Har- 
baugh, who hoped in her heart that Jus- 
tine would not come. For the first time 
she bethought herself of the expense, 
then of her husband's wrath when he 
heard of the project. Next to the 
Grimeses, the Harbaughs were the "clos- 
est" people in the township. 

While Justine was trying to frame ex- 
cuses for not attending the party, Mrs. 
Harbaugh was just as earnestly explain- 
ing that "bad weather," "sickness," "un- 
foreseen acts of Providence," and a lot 
of other emergencies might necessitate 
a postponement, but, in case nothing hap- 
pened to prevent, the "sociable" would 
take place on "Friday night a week." 
Mrs. Grimes came in while the discus- 
sion was still on. When she was told of 
Mrs. Harbaugh's plan to entertain the 
"best people in the neighborhood," Mrs. 
Grimes made a remark that promptly de- 
cided the giving of the party. 

"My sakes, Mrs. Harbaugh, how c'n 

you afford it ? We couldn't, I know, an' 

I guess Martin's 'bout as well off as the 

' next one 'round about here," she said, 


Mrs. Harbaugh bridled. "Oh. I guess 
we c'n afford it an 'more, too, Mrs. 
Grimes, if we'd 'a' mind to. 1 know that 
most i)eople 'bout here is mightly hard 
up, but who's to give these pleasant lit- 
tle entertainments unless it's them that's 
in good circumstances? That's the way 
Mr. Harbaugh an' me feels about it." 

Mrs. Harbaugh was hopelessly com- 
mitted to the "sociable." Other women 
came in and they soon were in a great 
flutter of excitement over the coming 
event. Tnstine was amazed bv this ex- 
hibition of interest and friendship on the 
part of her rich neighbors. She did not 
understand the significant smiles that 
went among the visitors as each new ar- 
rival swelled the crowd in the "front 
room." The look of surprise that marked 
each face on entering the room was suc- 
ceeded almost instantly by one best de- 



scribed as "sheepish." Not a woman 
there but felt herself ashamed to be 
caught in the act of obeying 'Gene Craw- 
ley's injunction so speedily. 

Bewildered, Justine promised to at- 
tend the "sociable." The meaning ex- 
pressed in the sly glances, smirks, and 
p)Oorly concealed sniffs escaped her no- 
tice. She did not know what everyone 
else knew perfectly well — that Mrs. Har- 
baugh's party was a peace-offering, and 
a sacrifice that almost drew blood from 
the calloused heart of the "chairman." 

That evening she told 'Gene of the vis- 
itation from the "high an' mighty" (as 
Crawley termed the Clay "aristocrats") 
and she made no effort to conceal her dis- 

"How can I go to the party, 'Gene?" 
she said in despair. "I have nothing to 
wear — absolutely nothing — " 

"Now, that's the woman all over," 
scoffed Crawley, resorting to badinage. 
"I wouldn't let that worry me, Justine. 
Go ahead an' have a good time. The 
clothes you've got are a heap sight more 
becomin' th'n the fine feathers them hens 
wear. Lord 'a' mercy, I think they're 
sights !" 

"But, 'Gene, it's the first time any one 
of them has been to see me in months," 
she protested, dimly conscious of dis- 

"Well, I — I guess they've been purty 
busy," said he, lamely. Crawley was a 
poor dissembler. 

"Besides, I don't care to go. Jud isn't 
here and — and, oh, I can't see how it 
could give me any pleasure." 

'Gene shifted from one foot to the 
other. He was beginning to accuse him- 
self of adding new tribulation to Justine's 
heavy load. He had not anticipated such 
quick results from his onslaught of the 
night before,, nor had he any means of 
knowing to what length the women 
might go in their abasement. That they 
had surrendered so abjectly had given 
him no little satisfaction until he had 
seen that Justine was distressed. 

"You'll have a good time, Justine. 
Ever'body does, I reckon. Seems like 
they want you to come purty bad, too," 
he said encouragingly. 

"They really did insist," she agreed, 
smiling faintly. Crawley's gaze wavered 
and then fell. Out in the bam-lot, later 

in the evening, he worked himself into a 
rare state of indignation. 

"If them folks don't treat her right, 
over at the 'sociable,' they'd oughter be 
strung up," he was growling to himself. 
"If I thought they wuz jest doin' this 
to git a chanct to hurt her feelin's some 
way, I'd— I'd— " But he could think of 
nothing severe enough to meet the de- 

Mr. Harbaugh did just as his wife ex- 
pected he would do when she broke the 
news to him. He stormed and fumed 
and forgot his position as a deacon of the 
church. Two days passed before he sub- 
mitted and she was free to issue her invi- 
tations. Their social standing in the 
neighborhood was such that only the 
"best people" could be expected to en- 
joy their hospitality. 

"How are you goin' to invite 'Gene 
Crawley 'thout astin' all the other hired 
men in the township ? He hain't no bet- 
ter 'n the rest," argued Mr. Harbaugh, 

"I'm not goin' to invite Mr. Crawley," 
said his wife firmly. 

"Well, then, what air you g^vin' the 
shindig fer? I thought it was fer the 
purpose o' squarin' things regardin' them 

"We are under no obligations to 'Gene. 
Besides, he's no gentleman. He ain't fit 
to step inside the parlor." 

"I noticed he stepped into one t'other 
night, all right," grinned Mr. Harbaugh. 

"I s'pose you are defendin' him," 
snapped his wife. 

" 'Pears to me he c'n keer fer himse'f 
purty well. He don't need no defendin*. 
But, say, — don't you think he'll rare up a 
bit if he don't git a bid to the party?" 

"Well, he won't take it out o' me," she 
spoke, meaningly. 

"Course not," he exclaimed. "That's 
the tarnation trouble of it; he'll take it 
out o' me." Mr. Harbaugh involuntarily 
glanced over his shoulder as though ex- 
pecting Crawley to appear in the door- 
way as mysteriously as he had appeared 
on the night of the "meeting." 

"It don't make any difference. You'll 
have to stand it, that's all. Fm not goin' 
to have that low-down fool in my house," 
was Mrs. Harbaugh's parting shot. The 
result was that Crawley was not invited 
— he had not expected to be — and Har- 



baugh felt obliged to "dodge" him care- 
fully for the next two or three months. 

The "Harbaugh oyster supper*' was 
the talk of an expectant community for a 
full and busy week. Justine Sherrod ap- 
parently was the only person in the whole 
neighborhood who did not know the in- 
side facts concerning the affair. Gen- 
erally, it was said to be a "mighty nice 
thing in the Harbaughs," but everyone 
interested knew that the influence of 
Eugene Crawley prompted the good in- 

Half-heartedly, the unconscious guest 
of honor prepared for the event. Her 
ever-neat though well-worn garments 
were gone over carefully, not to her sat- 
isfaction but to the delight of Mrs. Crane. 
Mr. and Mrs. Grimes stopped for her on 
their way over to Harbaugh's on the 
night of the party. Trim and straight 
and graceful in the old black dress that 
looked new, Justine sat beside the flut- 
tering Mrs. Grimes on the "back-seat" 
of the "canopy top.*' There was a warm 
flush in her cheek, a half-defiant gleam 
in her eyes. She went to the party with 
the feeling in her breast that every 
woman there would "tear the old black 
dress to shreds** and in secret poke fun 
at her poverty. Crawley stood in the 
barn-door as she drove away with the 
Grimeses. There was something bitterly 
triumphant in the slow smile that uncov- 
ered the gleaming teeth as he waved a 
farewell to her — not to Mrs. Grimes, who 
was responding so eagerly. 

"Fd like to be there, — jest to see how 
much purtier she looks than the rest,** 
he murmured, wistfully, as he turned 
away to finish the evenings chores. 

Despite her illness, suffering, and 
never-ceasing longing for Jud, she was 
by far the prettiest woman in the motley 
crowd. The men unhesitatingly com- 
mented on her "good looks,'* and not one 
of them seemed to notice that her dress 
was old and simple. Many a woman 
went home that night envious and jeal- 
ous of Justine's appealing beauty. Hard 
as they felt toward her, they were com- 
pelled to admit that she was "quality." 
She was a Van — were she ever so poor. 

She was young. The heartiness with 
which she was received, the gaiety into 
which she was almost dragrged, beat 
down the shvness that marred her first 
half-hour. Pride retreated before good 

spirits, and, to her own surprise, she 
came to enjoy the festivities of the night. 

Glenville supported one newspaper — a 
weekly. Its editor and publisher and 
general reporter was a big man in the 
community. He was a much bigger man 
than his paper. Few people in Clay 
township did not know the indefatigable 
and ubiquitous Roscoe Boswell, either 
personally or by reputation. His Week- 
ly Tomahawk, made up largely of "boil- 
er-plate matter** and advertisements in 
wonderful typography, adorned the 
pantry-shelves of almost every house in * 
the township. Jim Hardesty once ironi- 
cally remarked that he believed more 
housewives read the paper in the pantry 
than they did in the parlor. For his own 
part, he frequently caught himself spell- 
ing out the news as he "wrapped up bacon 
and side-meat** with sections of the 
Tomahazvk. But Mr. Boswell was a big 
man politically and socially. His "local 
and personal" column and his "country 
correspondence'* column were alive with 
the gossip of the district. If 'Squire 
Higgins painted his barn, the "news" 
came out in the Tomahawk; if Miss 
Phoebe Baker crossed the street to visit 
Mrs. Matlock the fact was published to 
the world — or, at least, to that part of it 
bounded by the Clay township lines; if 
our old friend and subscriber George 
Baughnacht drove out into the country 
with his new "side-bar'* buggy the whole 
community was given to understand that 
it ''looked suspicious*' and that a "black- 
haired girl was fond of "buggy-riding.*' 

Mrs. Harbaugh*s party would not have 
been complete without the presence of 
Roscoe Boswell. He came with his 
paper-pad, his pencil, and his jokes. In- 
cidentally, Mrs. Boswell came. She de- 
scribed the dresses of the ladies. Every- 
one was nice to Roscoe. The next issue 
of the Tomahazvk was carefully read and 
preserved by the guests at the "sociable," 
for it contained a glowing account of the 
"swell affair," and it also had a complete 
list of names, including those of the chil- 

Now, Mr. Boswell, besides being a big 
man, was an observing person. He had 
seen a Chicago paper containing the news 
of the Wood-Sherrod wedding, but, like 
others, he was convinced that the groom 
was not the old Clay township bicy^. 



Nevertheless, he made up his mind to 
question Justine, when he saw her at the 

**How do you do, Mrs. Sherrod?" he 
greeted, just before the oysters were 
served. She was passing through the 
parlor in search of Mrs. Harbaugh. 

**Why, Mr. Boswell,'' she said gaily. 
"It is quite an honor to have you with us. 
Is Mrs. Boswell here?'* 

"Yes — she'll be getting a description 
of your dress pretty soon," he said, 
glancing at the plain black. "My, but 
you look fine to-night," he added, ob- 
serving the embarassed look in her eyes. 
"Black's my favorite colour. Always 
sets a woman off so. What do you hear 
from Jud ?" 

"He has been in Paris, Mr. Boswell, 
studying art, and he is very well. I 
heard from him a day or so ago." 

Roscoe Boswell breathed a sigh of re- 

"How long will be be over there?" he 

"He is expected back this week. Per- 
haps rU get a letter from him in a day 
or two." 

"Say, would you mind letting me have 
the letter for publication ?" cried Roscoe, 
quickly. "It would make great reading 
for his friends here. He's an awfully 
bright fellow, and his letter would be a 
corker. Won't you please send it up to 

"Oh, Tm sure it wouldn't be good 
reading, Mr. Boswell," cried Justine, 
flushing with pleasure. "They are most- 
ly personal, you know, and would sound 
very silly to other people." 

"Til cut out the love part," he grinned, 
"and use nothing but the description of 
Paris or whatever he says about the old 



"I don't believe he would like it, Mr. 
Boswell," said she, but in her mind she 
was wishing that one of his interesting 
letters could be given to the public. She 
wanted the people to know how splendid- 
ly he was doing. 

"We'll risk that," said Roscoe conclu- 
sively. "He won't mind, and besides, he 
won't see it. He don't take the paper, 
you know. I haven't many subscribers 
in Chicago just now," he added, reflec- 

"He will come to see me just as soon 

as he gets back to Chicago and then I'll 
ask him about it," she said. 

"Is he coming down soon?" asked the 
editor, going back to his original object. 

"Oh, yes. He will be down in a week 
or two, I am sure." 

"Are you — er — do you expect to go to 
Chicago to live?" he asked rather ner- 
vously for him. 

"Yes — quite soon, I think. Mr. Sher- 
rod is making arrangements to have me 
come up very shortly. He says he is get- 
ting a home ready for us on the north 
side. Do you know much about the 
north side?" 

**Er — I — well, not much," murmured 
Roscoe Boswell, who had been in Chi- 
cago but once in his life — he had spent 
two days at the Worid's Fair. "I'm 
pretty well acquainted on the south side 
and the east side though. Great old city, 
ain't she?" 

"I have not been there since I was a 
small baby, but Jud says it is wonderful." 

"It'll be mighty nice for you both when 
Jud takes you up," said he, not knowing 
.how to proceed. He could not bring 
himself to ask her if she had heard of 
that strange similarity in names in con- 
nection with the Chicago wedding. 

"It will, indeed, and I'll be so happy. 
Jud wants me so much, and he'll be earn- 
ing enough soon to keep us both very 
nicely," she said simply. Roscoe Bos- 
well not only believed in the integrity of 
Jud Sherrod as she went away smiling, 
but he swore to himself that the stories 
about her and 'Gene Crawley were "in- 


fernal lies." 

He saw her from time to time in the 
course of the evening and she seemed so 
blithe and happy that he knew there was 
no shadow in her young heart. 

"I'm glad of it," he mused, forgetting 
to respond to Mrs. Harbaugh's question. 
"It would have been a thundering good 
story for the Tomahazvk if it had been 
our Jud, old as the story is by this time, 
but I'm darned glad there's nothing in 
it." Then aloud, with a jerk : "What's 
that, Mrs. Harbaugh?" 

Nevertheless, he could not help saying 
to Parson Marks just before the party 
came to an end: 

"Mrs. Sherrod is having the time of 
her young life, ain't she ? She's a mighty 
pretty thing. Jud ought to be mighty 



proud of her. Every man here's half or 
dead in love with her." 

"We all admire her very much," said 
Mr. Marks with great dignity. He did 
not like the free and easy speech of the 

"I noticed a curious thing in a Chicago 
paper not long ago," said Boswell, whose 
eyes were following the girl. ^'Fellow 
with the same name as Jud's was mar- 
ried up there. Funny, wasn't it ?" 

"Not at all, Mr. Boswell," said Mr. 
Marks stiffly. "There are hundreds of 
Sherrods in Chicago ; the name is a com- 
mon one. I saw the same article, I pre- 
sume. It so impressed me, I confess, 
that I took the liberty of writing to Jud 
Sherrod to inquire if he knew anything 
about it." 

"You did?" cried the editor, his eyes 
snapping eagerly. "And did he answer?" 

"He did, most assuredly." 

"Well?" asked Boswell, as the pastor 
paused. "What did he say ?" 

"He said that he knew nothing about 
it except what he had seen in the papers, 
that's all." 

"That's just what I thought," said the 
editor, emphatically. "I knew it wasn't 
our Jud." 

"How could it be our Jud ? He has a 
wife," said the minister severely. 

"Well, such things do happen. Par- 
son," said Boswell somewhat defiantlv. 
"You hear of them every dav ; papers are 
full of them." 

"You may rest assured that Jud Sher- 
rod IS not that sort of a boy. I married 
him and Justine Van, and I know them 
both," said Mr. Marks, with final scorn, 
and went away. 

"These darn-fool preachers think they 
know everything," muttered Boswell. 

When the Grimeses set Justine down 
at her gate just before midnight, 'Gene 
Crawley, who stood unseen in the shad- 
ow of the lilac bush, waited breathlessly 
for the sign that might tell him how she 
had fared among the Philistines. 

All the evening he had been anxious. 
He could not put away the fear that she 
might be mistreated or slighted in some 
way up at Harbaugh's. But his heart 
jumped with joy when he heard her 


Good-night," called Justine as she 
sprang lightly to the ground. "I've had 
such a good time, Mrs. Grimes. And it 

was good of you to take me over with 

There was no mistaking the ring in 
her voice. Crawley's deep breath of re- 
lief seemed to himself almost audible. 

"I thought you was having a right 
good time, Justine," said Martin Grimes 
with a laugh. "You cut in pretty free." ^^ 

"Well, it was an awfully nice party," 
said Mrs. Grimes. "Everybody seemed 
to enjoy it." 

"I'm so glad I went. Thank you, ever 
so much," Justine said, and there was a 
song in her voice. 

Her step was light and full of life as 
she sped up the path to the door of the 

"Thank the Lord," thought 'Gene, as 
he strode off into the night, "I guess it 
was all right for her, after all. She's 
been happy to-night." 



Soon after their return to Chicago Ce- 
leste began to observe changes in her hus- 
band's manner. He gave up newspaper 
illustrating and went in for water colours, 
and began to take lessons in oil painting. 
The cleverness of Jud Sherrod, the boy, 
was not wanting in the man. In a short 
time the born artist in him was mastering 
the difficulties of colour and he was paint- 
ing in a manner that surprised not only 
his critical friends but himself. He toiled 
hard and faithfully; his little studio on 
the top floor of their home was always a 
place of activity. 

Feverishly he began these first at- 
tempts at colouring, Celeste his only 
critic. With loving yet honest eyes she 
saw the faults, the virtues and the im- 
provement. He worked day and night 
despite her expostulations. The bright 
eyes he turned to her when he took them 
from the canvas were not the gray, hun- 
gry ones that dulled into reverie when he 
was alone with his pigments. His eyes 
saw two dancing faces in the colours as 
he spread them ; one dark, distressed and 
weary, the other fair, bright and happy. 

There came to him a powerful desire 
to see Justine, but with it the fear that he 
could not leave her if again he felt her 
presence touching his. For an hour at 



a time, day after day, he would hold Ce- 
leste in his arms, uttering no word, strok- 
ing her hair, caressing her face, gloomily 
repentant. The enormity of his mistake 
— he would not call it crime — had come 
full upon him. It was not that he had 
broken the laws of the land, but that he 
had deceived — deceived. 

Men about town remarked the change 
and wondered. Douglass Converse, in 
anxiety, sought to ascertain the cause, 
fearing to find Celeste unhappy. She 
was, beyond doubt, blissfully happy, and 
he fell back upon the old solution : Sher- 
rod was not well. The latter, in response 
to blunt questioning, told him he was not 
sick, not tired, not worried, but his heart 
quaked with the discovery that the eyes 
of his friends were upon him and always 

"Dudley, dear, let us go to Florida 
next month," said Celeste one night as 
they drove home from the theatre. He 
had drooped moodily through the play 
and had been silent as they whirled along 
in the carriage. In casting about for the 
cause of his new apparent weariness she 
ascribed it to overwork. 

"Do you really want to go, Celeste?" 
he asked, tenderly. "Will the stay down 
there do you good ?" 

"I want to get a^vay from Chicago for 
awhile. I want to be where it is bright 
and warm. Why should we stay here 
through all this wretched winter when it 
is so easy to go to such a delightful 
place? You must finish your picture in 
time to start next month. You don't 
know how happy it will make me." 

If he could only take Justine with 
them! That longing swelled his heart 
almost to the bursting. "If Justine could 
only enjoy it all with me," he groaned to 
himself. "If she could go ! If she could 
go where it is warm and bright! If I 
could have them both with me there 
could be no more darkness, no more chill, 
no more unhappiness." 

As the days dragged along, nearer and 
nearer the date set for the departure for 
Florida, he grew moodier, more dejected. 
But one thought filled his mind, the 
abdonment of Justine ; not regret for the 
wrong he was doing Celeste, but remorse 
for the wrong he was doing Justine. 
Sleepless nights found him seeing her 
slaving, half-JFrpzen, on that wretched 

farm, far from the bright world he had 
enjoyed and she would have enjoyed. 

At last, a week before the day set for 
their departure for Florida he reached a 
sudden determination. He would see 
Justine, he would go to her in the night 
and kiss her and take her up in his arms 
and bear her to Chicago with him, there 
to — but no ! He could not do that ! He 
could only kiss her and take her in his 
arms and then steal back to the other 
one, a dastard. There could be but one, 
and it was for him to choose between 

He wondered if he could go back to 
the farm and live, if he could give up all 
he had won, if he could confess his error 
to Justine, if he could desert Celeste, if 
he could live without both of them. Self- 
ishness told him to relinquish Justine, 
honour told him to strip the shackles 
from Celeste, even though the action 
broke her heart. 

Then there came to his heart the de- 
sign of the coward, and he could not get 
away from its horrible influence. It bat- 
tled down manly resistance, it overthrew 
every courageous impulse, it made of him 
a weak, forceless, unresisting slave. WitVi 
the fever of this malignant impulse in his 
blood, he stealthily began the laying of 
plans that were to end his troubles. But 
one person would be left to suffer and to 
wonder and she might never know the 

One dark night there descended from 
the railway coach at Glenville a roughly 
clad man whose appearance was that of 
a stranger, but whose actions were those 
of one familiar with the dark surround- 
ings. There had been few changes in 
Glenville since the day on which Jud 
Sherrod left the place for the big city on 
the lake, but there had been a wondrous 
change in the man who was returning, 
under cover of night, to the quaint, old- 
fashioned home of his boyhood. He had 
gone away an eager, buoyant youth, 
strong and ambitious; he was coming 
back a heartsick, miserable old man, 
skulking and crafty. 

Through unused lanes, across dark, al- 
most forgotten fields, frozen and bleak, 
he sped, his straining eyes bent upon the 
blackness ahead, fearfully searching for 
the first faint flicker in a certain window. 
He did not know how long it took him to 
cover the miles that lay between the vil- 

:• ••* 

• * 



lage and the forlorn cottage in the win- 
ter-swept lane. He had carefully con- 
cealed his face from the station-men and 
there were so few people abroad in that 
freezing night that no one knew of the 
return of Justine's long absent husband. 
His journey across the fields was accom- 
plished almost before he knew it had be- 
gun, so full was his mind of the purpose 
that brought him there. Every sound 
startled and unnerved him, yet he hurried 
on unswervingly. He was going to the 
end of it all. 

At last he came to the fence that sep- 
arated Justine's little farm from the 
broad acres of David Strong. Scarce 
half a mile away stood the cottage, hid- 
den in the night. He knew it was there 
and he knew that a light shone from a 
window on the side of the house farthest 
from him. It was there that she loved to 
sit, and, as it was not yet ten o'clock, she 
could not have gone to bed. He swerved 
to the south and by a wide detour came 
to the garden fence that he had biiilt 
in the days gone by. As he slunk past 
the corner of the barn his gaze fell upon 
the lighted window. 

He clung to the fence and gazed in- 
tently at the square blotch of yellow in 
the blackness. She was there! In that 
room ! His Justine ! For a moment his 
resolution wavered. Then he doggedly 
turned his back upon the kindly glimmer 
in her window, and looked into the shad- 
ow. He did not dare to look again upon 
the loving light that stretched its warmth 
out to him as he shuddered and cringed 
on the threshold of his own home, almost 
within the clasp of those adoring arms. 

But with his back to her. his face to 
the darkness, he waited, waited, waited. 
It seemed to him that hours passed be- 
fore he dared again to face the house, 
fearing that another glimpse of her light 
would break his resolution. His mind 
was a blank save for one tense thought — 
the one great thought that had drawn 
him from one woman to the other. He 
thought only of the moment when the 
light in the window should disappear, 
when stillness should be in Justine's bed- 
chamber, when no accusing eye could 
look upon what was to follow. His numb 
fingers felt for the knife that lay sheathed 
in his overcoat pocket, and he shuddered 
as they touched it. 

His eyes again turned apprehensively 

toward the house. The window was 
dark; he could see nothing except the 
dense outlines of the square little build- 
ing against the black sky. There was a 
dead chill in the air. The silence weighed 
upon him. He made a stealthy way to 
the weather boards of the house. The 
touch of his numb fingers against the 
frosty wood was uncanny, and he drew 
his hand sharply away. For a moment 
he paused and his crouching form 
straightened with a sudden consciousness 
of its position. The deepest revulsion 
swept over him, the most inordinate 
shame and horror. \\ hy was he coming 
to her in the dead of night, like an assas- 
sin, sneaking, cringing, shivering. With 
a groan he recklessly strode forward to 
the dark window frame. His fingers 
touched the glass of two or three panes, 
then the rags that kept the wind out of 
others. In there she was lying asleep, 
alone, breathing softly, dreaming of him 
perhaps. He was within ten feet of that 
dear, unconscious body, and she was 
sweetly alive — a tender breathing thing 
that loved him better than life. Alive, 
and he had come to take life away from 
her! He had come to steal the only 
thing that was left to her — her life. 

With wild eyes he sought to penetrate 
the darkness beyond the glass. As plain- 
ly as if it were broad daylight his im- 
agination revealed to him the interior of 
the bare room. There were his drawings 
on the walls ; the worn ingrain carpet of 
green and red ; the old rocking-chair 
and the two cane-bottom chairs ; the wal- 
nut stand with its simple cover of white 
muslin, the prayer-book and the kerosene 
lamp; Justine's little work-basket with 
its yarn, its knitting, its thread, thimble, 
patch-pieces, and the scissors. Across 
the back of a chair hung her pitifully un- 
fashionable dress of calico, her white un- 
derskirt, her thick petticoat; beside the 
bed stood the heavy, well-worn shoes 
with her black stockings lying limp and 
lifeless across them. The white cover- 
let, rumpled and ridged by the lithe fig- 
ure that snuggled underneath ; the brown 
hair, the sweet, tired face with its closed 
eyes, sunk in the broad pillow ; the gentle 
breathing, the regular movement of the 
covers that stretched across the warm, 
slumbering body; the brown, strong 
hand that wore his ring resting beside 
the cheek of the sleeper — a sudden eag- 



erness to clasp the hand, to hold it firm, 
to protect it from something, came to 
him. He wondered for a moment why 
she should need protection — before he 

How could he live without her? The 
folly of trying to do so ! Better, far bet- 
ter, that he should die and take her with 
him, leaving the other to wonder and at 
last find her young way back to happi- 
ness through forgetfulness. Foresworn 
to end his own misery and to destroy 
every possible chance that might convey 
his faithlessness to the trusting Justine, 
he had slunk away from the city, bidding 
farewell to the world that had weakened 
him, and was now clinging to her win- 
dow sill with love and murder in his 
heart. He had come to kill her and 
to kill himself. He must have it over. 
There was no other way. His legs trem- 
bled as he sped on to the kitchen door. 
The door was bolted and he sought the 
narrow window. It moved under his 
effort, creaking treacherously, but he did 
not pause. A half-dead fire smouldered 
in the kitchen stove — their kitchen stove 
— and he sank beside it, craving its 
friendly warmth. He crouched there for 
many minutes, steeling himself for what 
was to come. Indecision and weakness 
assailed him again and again, but he 
overcame them ; the fear of death made 
him cast glances over his shoulder, but 
he set his teeth ; the terror of crime shook 
him, but he fought it away. There was 
but one way to end the tragedy, there 
was but one way to save Justine. It 
would be over in a moment ; there was 
relief in that. 

How he crept through the kitchen and 
the dark sitting-room he did not know, 
but at last he found himself, breathless 
and pulseless at her door. Then came 
the stunning thought : was she alone in 
the room? Was old Mrs. Crane with 
her or was she in the little half-story 
room at the head of the stairs? He 
shrank back to the kitchen noiselesslv. 
Groping his way to the table he ran his 
hand over its surface until it touched the 
candlestick that he knew was there, as 
well as if he had seen it. He lighted the 
candle from the flickering blue flame in 
the stove, and, shading it with his hand, 
glided swiftly to her door. 

After what seemed an hour of irreso- 
lution he softly pressed the latch. The 

almost imperceptible noise sounded like 
a crash of thunder in his sensitive ears, 
but the door swung slowly open and he 
stood in his wife's room. Yes! There 
was the bed and there was the mass of 
brown hair and the white, blurred face, 
and — 

But what was that noise? His heart 
stopped beating — his wide eyes saw Jus- 
tine's hand slowly stretch out and, as 
if its owner were acting in her sleep, ap- 
parently tuck in the covers on the side of 
the bed nearest the wall. A faint, smoth- 
ered wail came to his ears. There was 
no mistaking the sound. 

A baby ! 

As he stood there in the doorway, 
frozen to the six)t, the candle in one 
hand, the knife in the other, Justine 
moved suddenly and in a moment was 
staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. 



Slowly she half raised herself from the 
pillow, her right arm going out as if to 
shield the tinv bit of life beside her, her 
great eyes staring at the intruder ; the in- 
clination to shriek was met by the paraly- 
sis of every faculty, and she could do no 
more than moan once in her fear. The 
eyes of the tall, gaunt man, upon whose 
face the fitful light of the candle threw 
weird shadows, held her motionless. 

**Wha — what do you want?" she finally 

*'Justine, don't you — don't you know 
me?" he asked, hoarsely, not conscious 
of the question, motionless in the door- 

**Oh, oh," she moaned tremuously, and 
then her hand was stretched toward him, 
wonder, uncertainty, fear in her eyes. 

*'I am Jud — ^Jud ; don't you know me? 
Don't be frightened,'' he went on me- 

**It is a dream — oh, it is a dream," she 

**No, no! I thought you were asleep. 
Don't look at me, Justine, don't look at 
me! I cannot do it — I cannot!" He 
fell back against the wall, the knife clat- 
tering to the floor. Half convinced, now 
that she was thoroughly awake, Justine 
pressed her hand to her eyes and then, 



suddenly, with a glad cry, threw back 
the bed covers and sprang to the 

"Don't come near me," he cried, draw- 
ing back. She paused in amazement. 

"What is it, Jud— what is it?" she 
cried. "Why are you here? What has 
happened?" The candle dropped from 
his nerveless fingers. 

"Justine!" he groaned, stricken with 
terror in the darkness. 

An instant later he felt her warm arms 
about him and her trembling voice was 
pleading with him to tell her what had 
happened. He was next conscious of 
lying back in the old rocker, listlessly 
watching her relight the candle. It was 
freezing cold in the room. His lips and 
cheeks were warm where she had kissed 
them. And he had thought to touch her 
dear, loving lips only after they were 
cold in the death he was bringing. 

"Tell me, Jud, dear Jud," she cried, 
dropping to her knees beside him, her 
hands clutching his shoulders. Even in 
the dim, uncertain light he could see how 
thin and wan she had grown — he could 
see the suffering of months. A muffled 
wail come from the bed and her face 
turned instantly in that direction. His 
hand fell heavily upon hers. 

"Whose child is that?" he demanded 
harshly. She looked up into his face 
with a quick, startled glance, the bewil- 
dered expression in her eyes slowly giv- 
ing way to one of pain. 

"Why, Jud!" she cried, shrinking 
back. Her honest brown eyes searched 
his face. 

"Is it mine?'* he asked, blind with sus- 

"How could it be any one's but — oh, 
Jud Sherrod! Do you mean that — that 
— you don't think he is — my husband, 
do you think that of me ?" she whispered, 
slowly sinking away from him. 

"I — I — ^you did not tell me," he mut- 
tered, dazed and bewildered. "How was 
I to know ?" 

"Oh, I have loved you so long and so 
truly," she faltered. A sob of shame and 
anguish choked her as she arose and 
turned dizzily toward the bed. She 
threw herself face downward upon it, her 
arms across the sleeping babe, and burst 
out into weeping. 

Startled into sanity by the violence of 

her grief, he cast himself on his knees 
beside the bed. 

"I was mad, crazy, Justine," he cried. 
She shuddered as his hands and arms 
touched her. "My wife, my girl, don't 
shrink from me like that. I did not 
mean it, I did not know what I was 
saying. Look up, Justine, my Justine!" 
He seized her hand and covered it with 
kisses. At first she struggled to with- 
draw it; then suddenly abandoned it to 
him. Presently she pressed it against his 
lips, and then, in an instant, her face was 
turned toward him, the cheeks wet, the 
eyes swimming. 

"Oh, Jud, you did not think it, I know 
you didn't," she choked out, and sobbed 
again as he lifted and clasped her to his 
breast. In that moment he forgot his 
dreadful mission, forgot the baby and the 
misery of everything, and she was hap- 
pier than she had been in months. Once 
more the tender and thoughtful Jud, he 
drew the covers over her shivering body 
and tucked them in while she smiled hap- 
pily up into his wan face. 

"Don't you want to see the baby, 
dear?" she asked timidly, after a long 
time. He had seated himself on the side 
of the bed, his coat collar turned up 
about his chilled throat, his red hands 
clasped under his arms. "He is three 
months old, Jud, and you never knew. It 
is so strange you did not receive my let- 
ter. I could not write, though, for many 
weeks, I was so weak. Oh, Jud, you 
don't know how much I have suffered." 

It was the first complaint she had ever 
expressed to him in all those weary, 
despairing months of loneliness and pri- 
vation, and he covered his face with his 
hands. She drew them gently away, so 
that he might look at the baby. It was 
with a feeling of shame that he first saw 
his child. Young as it was, it bore the 
features of its father ; there could be no 
doubt. He gazed upon the little face and 
the clenched fists, and a deep reverence 
came to him. Pity for the baby, the 
mother and himself overcame him, and 
he dropped his head upon Justine's 

"Justine, forgive me, forgive me," he 

There is nothing to forgive, dear. 
Don't cry," she said softly. "It will all 
come right some day and we'll be so 
proud of the boy. Isn't he strong? Just 



feel of his little arms. And isn't he just 
like you ? I hope he will grow up to be 
as good and as strong as you, Jud." He 
looked dumbly into her eyes, still dewey 
with tears, and dropped his own, lest she 
should see the deceit in them. But she 
was not looking for deceit. 

"You are so cold, dear," she went on, 
"and you look so ill and tired. Come 
to bed and let me get up and make some 
hot coffee for you. Why, Jud, it is past 
midnight, and it is bitterly cold outside. 
How did you come from Glenville?" 

"I walked," he answered wearily. 

"Walked?*' she cried. "Why, Jud, 
what is wrong? Why are you here? 
Has anything happened to you?" Her 
voice was sharp with dread. 

"I am the most wretched man in the 
world, Justine." 

"Tell me all about it, Jud ; let me help 
you. Don't look like that! It must be 
all right, dear, now that we are together. 
All three, Jud." She went on cheerily. 
I would not even name him before you 
came, but I want you to call him Dud- 
ley." He felt the loving arms tighten 
about his neck and there came the eager 
desire to confess everything and to beg 
her to hide from the world with him in 
some place where he could never be 
found out. The love for Celeste was 
deep, but it was not like this love for 
Justine. He must keep it. The other 
might go; he and Justine and the baby 
would go away together. But not yet. 
Justine must not know, after all — at least 
not yet. 

"Everything has gone wrong, dear, 
and I had nothing to live for," he began 
warily, and then with a skill that sur- 
prised him he rushed through with a 
story that drew the deepest pity from 
his listener and gave him a breathing 
spell in which to develop a plan for the 

"You will loathe and despise me, Jus- 
tine, but I couldn't bear the thought of 
going into the hereafter without you," 
he said, after he had confessed his object 
in coming. "I had failed in everything 
and life wasn't worth living. My posi- 
tion is gone, I have no money and I 
don't seem to be able to find work. You 
were everything in the world to me and 
you were so proud of me. I just couldn't 
come back here and tell you that I had 
failed after all the chances I have had. 

When I opened your door to-night I had 
that knife in my hand. Do not be afraid, 
dearest; it is all over, and we'll live to 
be happy yet. God help me, I was going 
to kill you while you slept, kiss you to 
prove to your departing soul that I loved 
you, and that it was not hate that in- 
spired the deed, and then, the blade, wet 
with your dear blood, was to find its way 
to my heart. Thank God, you awoke. 
Had it not been for that we would be 
lying here dead and our boy, hidden in 
the bed, would have escaped my hand 
only to be thrown upon the world, a help- 
less orphan. But God has helped me 
to-night, and He will not again forget 
me. With His help and your love, I 
will go forth again with new courage and 
I'll win my way." 

She shuddered and thanked God alter- 
nately during his story, and when he 
paused after the firm declaration to win 
his wav she cried : 

"You have been brave so long and I 
have been brave, too, Jud. Why should 
we give up the fight? I have hardly 
enough to eat in the house, and I have 
endured more than seemed just from our 
loving God, but I did not forget that I 
have you and you are everything. It has 
been hard, terribly hard, but I did not 
give up." 

Then she confessed her secret, timor- 
ously at first, then eagerly, pleadingly. 
She told him of 'Gene Crawley's refor- 
mation, his kindness, his real nobility, 
^expecting at the outset that Jud would 
be angry and displeased. But he was 
thinking of the future, not of the past or 
the present. After a moment or two of 
surprise and chagrin he accepted her 
course in regard to Crawley as a natu- 
ral condition, and, trusting her implicitly, 
found no fault with her action. He went 
so far as to credit Crawley with more 
manhood than he had suspected. A flood 
of joy enveloped her when she saw that 
he was reconciled ; the weight of her 
only deception was lifted from her 
troubled heart. 

Already he was thinking of the or- 
deal ahead of him : the return to Ce- 
leste, the confession of his duplicity, his 
plea for forgiveness and lenienc}% and 
then the life of peace and solitude with 
Justine and the boy. He knew that Ce- 
leste's heart would be crushed, but it 
was the only way back to the path of 



honour. Justine should never know of 
his marriage to Celeste; that was the 
one thing the honest, virtuous country 
girl would not forgive. He even found 
himself, as he always w&s in emergen- 
cies, impatient to have the ortleal over, to 
know his fate, to give torture to one that 
he might be happy with the other. With 
the arms of the real wife about his neck, 
he trembled with the desire to be off to 
the side of the deceived one, there to un- 
mask himself, to grovel at her feet and 
then to fly from the world. How he 
could face Celeste he knew not, but he 
must do it. There seemed no way to 

lighten the blow he must deal and there 
seemed no escape from it. He was a 
bigamist, a criminal. 

To leave her without an explanation 
would result in a tireless search, inspired 
by her love ; the discovery of his duplicity 
by the police would mean conviction; 
even Celeste could not save him. 
Shrewdly he brought himself to believe 
that, though she could not forgive him, 
she would release him to avoid a scandal. 
He knew that he must play out to the 
end his role of the coward and the sup- 
plicant and the liar. 

(To be continued.) 


Be Sweethearts Now As Thea 

Alas ! that vows should broken be, 

And hearts disdainful grow, 
That love should from the cottage flee, 

Or bitter winds should blow ; 
Her once kind words should sting like whips. 

And he should never see 
The winning smile on tiny lips 

Of children at his knee. 

But years of youth are all too fleet, 

The fires of love grow cold, 
And winter with its snow and sleet 

Bedims the summer's gold. 
The raven locks are streaked with grey. 

And brows are seamed with care — 
O, thou whose heart is changing ! pray 

Think once of springtime fair. 

What though the years have left their trace. 

And sorrows thick and fast 
Have clouded thy once beaming face? — 

Life's storms will soon be past. 
What though thy load seems hard to bear. 

And griefs thy pathway strew ? 
Remember — she — the woman's share 

Of burden bears with you. 

Recall the half- forgotten tunes 

That once she used to sing ; 
Remember now the dear, dead Junes 

When life was blossoming. 
Let no day's sun set on thy wrath — 

Each hour with kindness fill ; 
'Twill smooth the end of life's rough path 

When those dear hands are still. 

Remember now the wicket gate, 

Where purple lilacs grew : 
The robin chose his russet mate — 

He won thy love from you. 
And thou, in all thy manly pride, 

Thy youth renew again. 
Recall the days of life's spring-tide — 

Be sweethearts now as then. 

George N, Lowe. 



New York. 

Broadway Publishing Company: 

Zebadiah Sartwell. By Dr. S. Paige 

A rustic novel. One David H. Beecher 
says of it: "Better than Eben Holden or 
David Harum," and the publishers say 
that "Zeb is one of the most unique and 
lovable types of a rustic wit in all litera- 
ture." There is really nothing to add to 
these statements, beyond pointing out to 
the publishers that this absurd method of 
exploitation has outlived its usefulness. 

Doubleday, Page and Company: 

The One Woman. By Thomas Dixon, Jr. 

Mr. Dixon's new novel which received 
considerable advance notice, and which at 
the present time is attracting attention. 
Mr. Dixon's previous book. The Leopard's 
Spots, continues on its prosperous way. 
A review of The One Woman will be 
found in a later number of The Book- 

Funk and Wagnalls: 

Ireland and Her Story. By Justin Mc- 

A short history of the Irish people. In 
a prefatory note, Mr. Howard Angus 
Kennedy writes: "The angry time has 
already passed when no Irishman could 
read with patience and profit a history of 
his native land by an Irishman of other 
politics than his own, and when the pre- 
dominant partner was inclined to shut his 
ears to both." 

Harper and Brothers: 

The Rise and Progress of the Standard 
Oil Company. By Gilbert Holland 

A study of the Standard Oil Company 
from its beginning in 1865 down to the 
present time. 

Macmillan Company: 

The City of God. By St. Augustine. 
Translated by John Healey. In Three 

These little volumes are brought out in 
the Temple Classic Series of which 
Messrs. Dent and Company are the pub- 
lishers in London and the Macmillans in 
this country. 

Philip. By William Makepeace Thack- 
eray. Two Volumes. 

New volumes in the Dent edition, edited 
by Walter Jerrold, and illustrated by 

Charles E. Brock. "A Shabby Genteel 
Story" is prefixed in volume I. We shall 
say more of this series later. 

The Call of the Wild. By Jack London. 

A story which has done much to aug- 
ment Mr. London's reputation. The tale has 
for its hero a dog named Buck, a cross 
between at St. Bernard and a Scotch 
shepherd. Mr. London gives a vivid pic- 
ture of the prfmeval life of the Klondike 
after the gold fever set in. The story was 
greatly praised during its serial run in the 
Saturday Evening Post, and will be dis- 
cussed at greater length in this magazine. 

The Saint of the Dragon's Dale. A Fan- 
tastic Tale. By William Stearns Davis. 

The fifth volume in the Macmillan Lit- 
tle Novel Series. Mr. Davis will be re- 
membered as the author of "A Friend of 
Caisar" and **God Wills It." 

Putnam's Sons: 

Arnold's March from Cambridge to Que- 
bec. By Justin H. Smith. 

The author of this book, a professor of 
Modern History in Dartmouth College, 
has written a history of the American in- 
vasion of Canada in 1775 and 1776. The 
book contains a number of maps and a 
reprint of Benedict Arnold's Journal. 

Francis Adrian van der Kemp. Edited, 
with an historical sketch, by Helen 
Lincklaen Fairchild. 

An autobiography covering a period 
from 1752 to 1829. Although portions of 
this autobiography have appeared both in 
this country and in Holland, it is believed 
to have appeared entire in print but once, 
in 1837, in an English periodical. The 
volume contains a number of extracts 
from Mr. van der Kemp's correspondence. 

Revell and Company: 

The Faith of Robert Louis Stevenson. By 
John Kelman, Jr., M.A. 

The author of this book is a preacher in 
Edinburgh, and he has been called the 
legitimate successor of Professor Drum- 
mond. The Rev. Mr. Kelman's study of 
Stevenson from a religious point of view 
is, therefore, of particular interest. 


The Works of F. Hopkinson Smith. 
Under Dog. Volume X. 


Mr. Smith's latest collection of short 
stories may be found in this volume. The 
edition, which is sold by subscription 
only, is complete in ten volumes. The 
publishers call it the "Beacon Edition" in 



honour of the author's prominence as an 
engineer and as a builder of lighthouses. 


Tales in Metre, and Other Poems. 
Frederic Crowninshield. 


A collection of poems limited to an 
edition of one hundred and fifty. Mr. 
Crowninshield is the well known mural 
painter as well as the author of "A Paint- 
er's Moods" and "Pictoris Carmina." 

Silver, Burden and Company: 

Tools and Machines. By Charles Bar- 

A book of instruction for boys and girls 
on the practical use of various kinds of 
tools. Mr. Barnard is an editorial con- 
tributor to the Century Dictionary. 

Stories from the Hebrew. By Josephine 
Woodbury Heermans. 

A text-book for use as a supplementary 
reader in the public schools. 

Holt and Company: 

A Duke and His Double. By Edward S. 
Van Zile. 

An amusing little tale of New York life 
to-day that contains the elements of a 
pretty good comedy. The Duke's double 
is, as a matter of course, a mystery. 

Treat and Company: 

Plain Hints for Busy Mothers. By Mari- 
anna Wheeler. 

A paper covered handbook by the Su- 
perintendent of the Babies* Hospital, New 
York, and author of "The Baby." 

Ogilvie Publishing Company: 

The Sociable Ghost. Written down by 
Olive Harper and Another. 

A sensational looking novel, described 
in the sub-title as the adventures of a re- 
porter who was invited by the Sociable 
Ghost to a grand banquet, ball, and con- 
vention, under the ground of old Trinity 
Churchyard. In the illustrations skele- 
tons figure conspicuously. 

Comrade Publishing Company: 

Revolutionary Essays in Socialist Faith 
and Fancy. By Peter E. Burrowes. 

A collection of fifty-six essays which 
are certainly revolutionary in character. 

Naturalism in the Recent German Drama. 

With Special Reference to Gerhart 

Hauptmann. By Alfred Stoeckius, A.M. 

A pamphlet "submitted in partial ful- 
fillment of the requirements for the De- 
gree of Doctor of Philosophy, in the Fac- 
ulty of Philosophy, Columbia University." 

Miss Traumerei. A Weimar Idyl. By 
Albert Morris Bagby. 

A novel which is now in its fourth edi- 
tion, and which has been published by the 
author. Lizst figures in the story, and the 

illustrations show in his Music Room, his 
Sleeping Room, and his Monument in the 
Grand Ducal Park. 


Ginn and Company: 

Boston. A Guide Book. By Edwin M. 

This Guide Book was prepared for the 
Convention of the National Education 
Association, July 6-10, 1903. 

Lothrop Publishing Company: 

A Parish of Two. By Henry Goelet Mc- 
Vickar and Percy Collins. 

A story told in letters which pass be- 
tween an invalid clergyman and his man- 
of-the-world friend. "Percy Collins" is 
a pen name. The idea of two men writing 
to each other has also been carried out 
in The Kempton-Wace Letters, although 
it is pretty generally known that in that 
book one of the correspondents is a 

Andy Barr. By Willis B. Hawkins. 

A story of the lives of two boys up to 
the time when they fight for their country 
in the Civil War. The scenes are laid in 
a small village, and the quaint sayings of 
Andy are generously sprinkled through 
the story. 

A Partnership ni Magic. By Charles 
Battell Loomis. 

This, we believe, is the first long story 
from the pen of Mr. Loomis, the well 
known humourist. A Partnership in 
Magic may be classed as a juvenile, but 
there is lots of fun in it for the adult. 

On Special Assignment. By Samuel 
Travers Clover. 

A sequel to Paul Travers* Adventures, 
in which the hero of Mr. Clover's former 
story has some experiences in different 
parts of the far West, in connection with 
his work as a newspaper correspondent. 
This is a book to appeal to the young 
rather than to the old. 


Young Ivy on Old Walls. By H. Arthur 

A book containing about sixty poems, 
the subjects being divided between Na- 
ture, Life, Love, and Varying Moods. 

Page and Company: 

The Schemers. By F. F. Harkins. 

A novel dealing with the life of a large 
department store, and this fact in itself 
is of interest. A further notice of the 
book will be found under the Chronicle 
and Comment of this number. 

The Captain's Wife. By W. Clark Rus- 

A story which may be classed under 



the heading of "The Sea in Fiction," 
which subject was discussed in the August 



Peggy O'Neal. By Alfred Henry Lewis. 

An historical novel by the author of 
Wolfville. The hero of the tale is Gen- 
eral Jackson, for whom the author ex- 
presses a warm admiration. Mr. Henry 
Hutt has made the illustrations, which 
are in colour. 


The Crimson Dice. By George Nox 

The author of this novel of adventure 
and mystery is a member of the editorial 
staff of the Philadelphia Press. He has 
had twenty-five years' experience as a 
political writer, newspaper staff correspon- 
dent, and lecturer. The publishers com- 
pare this novel to the works of Conan 
Doyle and Anthony Hope. We do not. 

San Francisco. 


As It Was in The Beginning. By Joa- 
quin Miller. 

A long poem of forty-one stanzas by 
the well-known Western poet. Mr. Miller 
has dedicated the poem to the "Mothers 
of Men." 


Laird and Lee: 

The Harkriders. By Opie Read. 

A new novel by the author of many 
well-known stories. The book contains 
a triple love story and a graphic descrip- 
tion of a fox hunt. The illustrations are 
in colour. 

Childhood Classics. Edited by Uncle 

A collection of Mother Goose melodies 
and stories, nursery rhymes, and fairy 
tales, with two hundred and fifty illustra- 
tions. Such favourites as Mother Hub- 
bard, Cinderella, Blue Beard, Little Red 
Riding Hood, and the Sleeping Beauty 
may be found therein. 

Jungle Larks. By "Gar." (R. H. Gar- 

^ Under this title may be found a collec- 
tion of funny animal stories for the little 
people. The illustrations are in colour, 
and the cover design shows some of the 
animals dancing around a Maypole im- 
provised by a giraffe, the ribbons being 
composed of snakes and monkeys. 

Red Wing, Minnesota. 

Argus Press: 

The Failure of Jesus and His Triumph. 

Of these "silhouettes" the publishers 
have this to say: "It is a product of ra- 
tionalism, but it is a protest against the 
negation of agnosticism." 


Government Printing Office: 

Natick Dictionary. By James Hammond 

This Dictionary is published by the 
Bureau of American Ethnology, of which 
Mr. J. W. Powell is the director. 

Neale Publishing Company: 

Lingo Dan. By Percival Pollard. 

A novel by the author of The Imitator 
and Cape of Storms. Mr. Pollard first in- 
troduced "Lingo Dan" to his readers in 
1894, through the San Francisco Argonaut 
"If it be objected against me," writes Mr. 
Pollard, "that I have delayed nearly ten 
years in thus continuing the chronicle be- 
gun in 1894, I retort that even this has 
taken a deal of temerity; my gentleman is 
still alive, and there is no knowing what 
form his reproaches for these indiscre- 
tions of mine may take." 


New books in order of demand as sold be- 
tween June and July, 1903. 

We guarantee the authenticity of the follow- 
ing lintH, an supplied to us, each by leading 
booksellers in the towns mentioned: 

New York — Downtown. 

1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. 

(Macmillan.) $1.50. 

2. The Call of the Wild. Loudon. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Harper.) 


5. How Paris Amuses Itself. Smith. (Funk 

& Wagnalls.) $1.50 net. 

6. Under Dog. Smith. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

Albany. N. Y. 

T. Wee Macgreegor. Bell. (Grosset & 
Dunlap.) 25c. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. J. Lane. 

(Macmillan.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Paee. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. The Call of the Wild. Loudon. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

5. Peggy O'Neal. Lewis. (Drexel Biddle.) 


6. How Paris Amuses Itself. Smith. (Funk 

& Wagnalls.) $1.50 net. 



Salt Lak« City, Utah. 

1. Lions of the Lord. Wilson. (Lothrop.) 


2. Gordon Keith. Pa^t*. (Scribncr.) $1.50. 

3. The Gray Cloak. MacGrath. Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

4. Black Lion Inn. Lewis. (Russell.) 


5. Under the Rose. Ishani. Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

6. Pride of Tellfair. Peake. (Harper.) 


San Francisco, CaL 

1. For the Pleasure of His Company. Stod- 

dard. (Robertson.) $1.50 net. 

2. Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch. 

Hegan-Rice. (Century.) $1.00. 

3. As It Was in the Beginning. Miller. 

(Robertson.) $1.00 net. 

4. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Harper.) 


5. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

6. The Spenders. Wilson. (Lothrop.) $1.50. 

St. Louis, Mo. 

1. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Lane. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. The Gray Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $i.«;o. 

4. The Captain's Tollgate. Stockton. (Ap- 
pleton.) $1.50. 

5. The Under Dog. Smith. (Scribner.) 


6. The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

Toledo, O. 

1. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

2. The Virginian. Wister. (Macmillan.) 


3. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

4. The Under Dog. Smith. (Scribner.) 

5 The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 
6. Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch. 
Hegan-Rice. (Century.) $1.00. 

Tucson, Ariz. 

1. The Main Chance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

2. The Gray Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

3. Wee Macgreegor. Bell. (Grosset & Dun- 

lap.) $1.00. 

4. Lovey Mary. Hegan-Rice. (Century.) 


5. The Virginian. Wister. (Macmillan.) 


6. Hearts Courageous. Rives. (Bobbs- 

Mcrrill.) $1.50. 

Washington, D. C. 

1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

3. The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

4. Peggy O'Neal. Lewis. (Stokes.) $1.50. 

5. Round Anvil Rock. Banks. (Macmil- 

man.) $1.50. 

6. Lovey Mary. Hegan-Rice. (Century.) 


Worcester, Mass. 

1. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

2. The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

3. The Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

4. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

5. The Under Dog. Smith. (Scribner.) 


6. The Captain's Tollgate. Stockton. (Ap- 

pleton.) $1.50. 

From the above lists the six best selling 
lKK)ks are selected according to the following 
system : 


A book standing ist on any list receives 10 













According to the foregoing lists, the six 
books which have sold best in the order of 
demand during the month are: 


1. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) 

$1.50 237 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. 

(Macmillan.) $1.50 150 

3. The Gray Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill Co.) $1.50 88 

4. The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs- 

Merrill Co.) $1.50 80 

5. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Har- 

per.) $1.50 ^ 

6. The Main Chance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- • 

Merrill Co.) $1.50 50 

Vol. XVIII. OCTOBER, 1903 No. 2. 



•' AT £ W 

Y O P K"^ 

The New School of Journalism, b|f Lincoln SlEffens, Hennk Ibsen, U\%. tasi^vs'^'s 
fiui de MaunasssnI. bi Braniler Matthews. Itin I',tnAm\M& %\ % NjNSlWV^ 

sewing are hard on the hands is no reason 
why a houseworker should have hard^ 
stamed^ unlovely ones^ or why a seamstress 
should be disfigured by roughened f mgers* 
Hand SAPOLIO will gently remove the 
loosened cuticle and impart strength to the 
new skin below* 

THOSE WHO USE Hand Sapolio 

need no cosmetics — ^nature^ relieved^ does its 
own perfect work* Other soaps chemically 
dissolve the dirt — HAND SAPOLIO re- 
moves it* Other soaps either gloss over 
the potcs, or by t excess of alkali absorb the 
healthful secretions which they contain* 



TRY HAND Sapolio. Its steady use 
will keep the hands of any busy woman 
as white and pretty as if she was under 
the constant care of a manicure* It is 
truly the ^^ Dainty Woman's Friend*^' 

October, 1903 


c/4 Magazine of Literature and Life 

Manuscripts submitted to The Bookman should be addressed to **Tbe Editors of The Bookman." 
Manuscripts sent to either of the Editors personally are liable to be mislaid or lost. ^ ^ 


A Baffling Cipher. 

The best thing in The Red Triangle, 
Mr. Arthur Morrison's recent contribu- 
tion to detective Hterature, is an exceed- 
ingly clever cryptogram which we think 
we could safely defy the most astute and 
persevering of our readers to decipher if 
they would battle with it strictly on the 
merits of the case and refrain from look- 
ing ahead. The crytogram, which is of 
vital importance in the story of The Red 
Triangle, is found written* in a fine hand 
on a strip of paper which has been rolled 
and concealed in the hollow of a key. It 
consists of a series of figures, running in 
the following order : 

9, 8, 14, 4, 20, i8. 5. 9; 15. IQ. 20. 

o. 3. 9, 8. s; 3, 2Z, o, o, 5, 13. 14, 

19119,20, o, o, o, o. 6. i; 5,20, o. 

o. o, o, 3. 22; I. 15. o, o, o, o, 18, 

5; I, 8, 20, II. 18. 9, 5, 20; 12, 5, 

23, 14, 14, I, I, 20 

Now at the very first glance this 
cryptogram appears to be almost childish 
in its simplicity. If we except the 
naughts, the numbers most frequently re- 
peated are 5 and 20, which occur seven 
times each. Now, the vowel most fre- 
quently occurring in average English 
writing is e, and we see at once that e is 
number five in the alphabet, counting 
from the beginning. Moreover, if we go 
on so counting we find that 20 is t, which 
is one of the most frequently occurring 
consonants. Thus it seems that the cipher 
is of the simplest nature, consisting mere- 
ly of the substitution of figures for let- 
ters in the exact order of the alphabet. 
But what of the naughts ? They are baf- 
fling, especially when we note that in 

three places there are actually four 
naughts in succession ; and, of course, no 
letter is repeated four times successively in 
any English word. This is as far as 
Brett, Arthur Morrison's Dr. Watson, 
the companion and historian of Martin 
Hewitt, Arthur Morrison's Sherlock 
Holmes, is able to proceed. So he passes 
it on to the "great detective" who prompt- 
ly points out the significance of the semi- 
colons which divide the missive into eight 
lines of eight figures each, and demon- 
strates with the aid of a chess board and 
the move of a knight starting at the 
proper point, that the cipher expanded to 
a freely expressed message, reads : "The 
plunder is in the ventilator, the loss is dis- 
covered, take away the booty at once; 
Martin Hewitt is here, and I fear I may 
be watched." 

A Family Affair. 

J J' or Id's Children, one of the handsome 
illustrated books of the autumn, strikes 
us as being decidedly a familv aflFair. The 
text is by Miss Dorothy Menpes. The 
pictures, about one hundred in number, 
are the w^ork of her father, Mortimer 
Menpes, the well-known artist. These 
pictures have been reproduced by the art- 
ist's daughter. Miss Maud ' Menpes. 
Finally, the illustrations were engraved 
and printed at the Menpes press. We 
should say that this establishes a record. 

A Precursor of Omar. 

The introduction of a precursor of 
Omar Khavyam to the American reading 
public is the avowed object of a rather 


eyes were always weak, -and he became, 
in middle age, totafij' blind. Iii"~^is 
twenty-fiftli year he visited Bagdad, the 
centre of learning and the capital of the 
Ahbaside Califs, remaining there about 
nineteen months, attending the lectures of 
the leading Sufis and doctors, and mak- 
ing the acquaintance of the learned men 
of his time. His career as poet and 
scholar actually dates from the time of his 
return from Bagdad, and according to his 
biographer he soon became "the master 
of the learned, the chief of the wise, and 
the sole king of the bards of his century," 
Marrah became the Mecca of every lit- 
erary aspirant. 

The translator points out the similarity 
of thought existing between Omar Khay- 
yam and Abu'l-Ala. The former, he 
thinks, was an imitator or a disciple of 
the latter. The birth of the first and the 
death of the second poets are not very far 
apart from each other : they both occurred 
about the middle of the eleventh century. 
Whoever will take the trouble, urges the 
translator, to read Omar Khayyam in 
conjunction with what in this volume is 


curious volume. The Quatrains of Abu'l- 
Ala, which has been rendered into Eng- 
lish by Ameen F. Rihani. .^bu'l-Ala, ac- 
cording to the preface of the book, lived 
in the latter part of the tenth and the first 
half of the eleventh centuries, and. at a 
time when Europe was arming itself for 
the first Crusade, was fighting against the 
fallacies, the shams and the lies of the 
ruling class of b'S time in its social, re- 
ligious, and political aspects. When a 
boy, his father taught him the first prin- 
ciples of grammar and thus instilled in 
his mind a love for learning. Subse- 
quently he was sent to Aleppo, where, 
with a private tutor, he pursued his 
studies. His poetical tendencies were de- 
veloped in his boyhood, and his first at- 
tempts were made when only eleven years 
of age. He was attacked by smallpox 
when a child and almost lost his sight as 
a result of the disease. Thereafter his 




translated of Abu'1-Ala cannot fail to see 
that the skepticism and pessimism of 
Omar are, to a great extent imported 
from Marrah. In his religions opinions 
the Arabian philosopher is far more out- 
spoken than the Persian poet. "I do not 
say that Omar was a plagiarist, but I say 
this: Just as Voltaire, for instance, ac- 
quired most of his liberal and skeptical 
views from Hobbs, Locke, and Bayie, so 

did Omar acquire his from Abu'I-Ala." 
While we do not thoroughly agree with 
the estimate of the translator, we are re- 
printing a few of the quatrains in order 
that our readers may judge for them- 
selves : 

Behold the Night, lest vaunlingly we say, 
"He fell a-bleeding, 'neath the sword of Day,'" 

Again recharges with his starry host. 
While all the fiery Suns in ambush lay. 




Many a Grave embraces friend and foe. 
And grins in scorn at Ihis most sorry show; 

A mullilude of corses therein pressed — 
Alas I Time almost reaps e'er he doth sow I 
The Days devour us all: none will they spare, 
And fang'd hours, Lion-like, upon us slarc; 

Anon they bound, and twixt their leeth 

Anon return to their eternal Lairl 

The door of Certainty we can't unlock, 

But we can knock and guess and guess and 

Night quickly carries us upon its Sail, 
Ship-hke. but where, O Night-ship, is thy 

Enchained in blindness of both Faith and 


I two long nights make of my darkest Night ; 

Once Umniu-lila luring I espoused. 
But even she my darkness could not light. 

Lord Salisbury as Journalist. 

The articles in tlic daily and weekly 
newspapers elicited by the deatli of the 
late Lord Salisbury have been in the 
main as commonplace and perfnnctory as 
might be expected. One which appeared 
in the London Academy was rather out 



of the usual, since it went backof his diplo- 
matic career and confines itself entirely 
to "Lord Salisbury as Journalist." When 
Salisbury, at the age of twenty-seven 
made an unmercenary marriage, money 
became a matter of much moment to him. 
His father would not increase his allow- 
ance, English politics offer little profit to 
the beginner, so he began writing for the 
press. The Saturday Fc-tinv had been 
started a year before and in its columns 
was published the series of articles on 
which Salisbury's rank as a journalist 
mainly rests. And this rank the Academy 

considers a very high one. Whether the 
"master of flouts" gave lone to the Satur- 
day, or. on the contrary, took tone from 
the Saturday, is a matter which his final 
biographers must seek to determine. 
Meanwhile a personal opinion mav be re- 
corded — that the Saturday Jir:-ic~ii' was in 
reality a creation of the future Premier's ; 
and that, in the capacity of creator, he 
has left a clearer stamp on the journahsm 
of the day than that made by any other 
one man of his generation. Alatthcw 
Arnold thought Disraeli was the only liv- 
ing statesman among his contemporaries 



who had really felt "the spell of litera- 
ture"; but Matthew Arnold would have 
been the very first to own the obligations 
which literary men, himself not excepted, 
owed to the existence of the Saturday 

where, yet are signed everywhere. Espe- 
cially dnring that Reform period, when 
Disraeli completed the 'education' of his 
party, the success of the adventurer added 
more gall than before to the ink of the 
seceder. The men who had not seceded 





"Wisely enough, perhaps," thinks the 
Academy, "no record was kept of the 
complete scries of articles contributed to 
the Saturday Rcz'ien.' by that caustic pen. 
But many of the articles are signed no- 

were at least to be taught their place as 
puppets. Such was the natural atti- 
tude of the man who had withdrawn 
without drawing after him all the stars 
of the Tory firmament. 'Mr. Dis- 



raeli,' the readers of the Saturday Re- 
view of July 6, 1867, were told, 'ac- 
curately estimated the weakness of his 
followers, and saw how easily they would 
yield to a little firmness' ; but he has even 
now to do many things that they do not 
like. Especially he has to adopt a course 
that must be very trying to his subordi- 
nates.* In the early part of the session he 
used Sir Stafford Northcote and Mr. 
Gathorne Hardy as his instruments for 
ascertaining the temper of the House. 
They were allowed and were encouraged 
to talk as if they still believed in Con- 
servative principles; and when they 
flagged, the Attorney-General was *insti- 
gated,' — ^and so forth. 'Instigated,' 'al- 
lowed,' 'used,' 'instruments,' *subordi- 
nates* — ^these are the flouts which pepper 
this article, and many another like it, 
week after week. The idea was to detach 
stragglers, and not only their grievances 
are imagined, but their own sufferings in 
the bearing of them. 'But these useful 
persons do not like to be put up only to 
be knocked down, and Mr. Disraeli has 
had to use humbler people as his ninepins. 
In the discussion on giving a third mem- 
ber to the great towns he found in Mr. 
Adderley exactly the very ninepin he 
most wanted ; and, having stimulated him 
to stand up, he knocked him down com- 
pletely, and with a contemptuous and al- 
most cruel indifference.' The cynicism 
with which the manoeuvres of the game of 
high politics are treated is a note of all 
these articles; and, for men who could 
bear without affront to be called 'nine- 
pins,' there was a last insult — ^to be brack- 
eted with Bright." 

Literary "Impossibilities." 

A little over two years ago we printed 
in this department ten or a dozen letters 
for the purpose of illustrating the sort of 
utterly impossible communications which 
make their way into the editorial offices 
of magazines. We published these letters 
without any especial enthusiasm, even a 
little wearily; but because we believed 
them to be undoubtedly amusing and be- 
cause they tended to bear out our firm 
conviction that no Impossibility in any 
other walk of life is quite so utterly im- 
possible as the Impossibility with literary 
aspirations. This has always been so, 
and it is growing more so every day. 
When Thackeray was the editor of the 

Cornhill Magasine he contributed to that 
periodical a half humorous, half pathetic 
little Roundabout Paper entitled "Thorns 
on the Cushion," in which he told of the 
ennuis and irritations of editorial work, 
and the letters, pleading, abusive, threat- 
ening, insulting, which caused an editor 
soon to learn to hear with a shudder the 
knock or the whistle of the postman. In 
this paper he told of the indignant epistle 
of a little Irish actress with an imaginary 
grievance, of the letters enclosing a poem, 
a pitiful story, and a prayer for accep- 
tance, of the pangs which went with the 
rejection which duty and common sense 
made inevitable ; in fact all the thorns on 
the cushion which conspired to render 
the occupation of the chair joyless and 
thankless. How keenly Thackeray felt 
all this was shown by his speedy resigna- 
tion of the editorship of the Cornhill. Yet 
we do not think there is an editor con- 
nected with a large magazine to-day who 
will not smile rather pityingly as he re- 
reads "Thorns on the Cushion," and 
maintain stoutly that the troubles of which 
Thackeray complained were not very 
great, after all, when contrasted with 
similar troubles of the present time. You 
see there are ten literary Impossibilities 
to-day where there was one half a cen- 
tury ago. And that, we think, tells the 

While part of the material of the para- 
graphs printed two years ago came 
through the mail addressed to this oflSce, 
the letters which we are now printing 
have nothing whatever to do with The 
Bookman, but were received by anothet 
magazine. We are quite ready to vouch 
absolutely for their authenticity and for 
two reasons: In the first place, because 
of our personal knowledge of the gentle- 
man, one of the editors of the magazine 
in question, who has kindly allowed us to 
publish them. In the second place, be- 
cause as we have pointed out before, no 
one human mind is capable of the inven- 
tion of any such series of letters. And 
here we wish to say that for the para- 
graphs which follow credit is due to Mr. 
Charles Hanson Towne. 

There seems to be prevalent, Mr. 
Towne thinks, the general impression 
that an editor leads a secluded existence 
which by keeping him out of touch with 



the rest of the world renders him sour 
and surly and ill-natured. That is why, 
our young school-girl friend will tell you, 
he is so cruel and exasperatingly rude. 
He does not clasp hands with humanity ; 
he is selfish and altogether impossible. 
But does he not come into touch with hu- 
manity ? They would think differently if 
they could see his desk any morning of 
the week^ piled high with the personal 
notes of entreaty, accompanied by the 
wonderful brain-children of, it would ap- 
pear, every being who can hold a pen. 
Budding geniuses write to him, and sen- 
timental lovers, in submitting to his criti- 
cal judgment their sad effusions, tell him 
that their particular love is the most beau- 
tiful the world has ever known. And 
over-worked mothers take time to inform 
him of the astonishing sonnets their lat- 
est pair of twins are producing; tired 
fathers write of "Harold's rondeaux" 
(though they do not spell rondeaux cor- 
rectly) ; and country school-mistresses 
entreat an early reading of their "poems" 
and demand a prompt remittance, as they 
are "saving up for the Saint Louis Ex- 

This is all interesting, some one will 
ask here, but is it funny ? Is it not more 
pitiful than humorous that so many 
simple souls come to such an unfeeling 
confessor in his unadorned confessional 
and lav bare their verv hearts and reveal 
their desires and hopeless aspirations? 
At first, most editors will tell you if you 
speak to them of this, that their hearts are 
.touched by such epistles and complete 
confessions. But as time goes on and the 
kindly editor has received, in answer to 
his thoughtful responses to young and 
inane literary aspirants, a reply some- 
what as follows, he ceases to care. In- 
deed, after a dozen or more such abusive 
missives are hurled back upon him, he 
becomes utterly callous, or, if he is wise, 
he laughs. When a busy man has given 
a half-hour of his valuable time to dictate 
a word in season to a youth who will 
never be able to write, as even a blind 
man could discover, and receives no more 
thanks for his pains than this, one cannot 
wonder that he grows indifferent : 

Dear sir, your crazy, i can rij^ht, you dont 

know what your talking about. Your a d 

fool and your old paper aint no goo anyhow, 
i no good potry wen i see it, and my prose is 

exellent to, having bin critcised by the best. 
Their is those who strive to keep us from get- 
ting to the front where we belong, but it aint 
no use. So ile take your old paper and throw 
it in the fire and ile tell all my frens to do 
the same. All edtors are fools anyway. Your 
a bigger one. . . . 

Lines followed which are unprintable. 
Is it possible to pity such a person ? One 
regrets — but, then, editors are always re- 
gretting ! 

Any one would smile when a poor little 
note like this comes in from a man far off 
in a remote Western town : 

Please don't return this story to me if you 
don't want it, as I do not wish my wife to 
know it has been rejected. She would laugh 
so at me. 

The simple request was borne in mind, 
of course, and the bulky manuscript de- 
stroyed. A woman in Kansas once wrote 
to a certain editor, asking him what price 
he paid for stories. He told her that his 
regular rate was ten dollars a thousand. 
Back came a letter, saying she thought 
she would "rather stick to chicken-rais- 
ing, as it would take her so long to write 
a thousand stories !*' Letters very similar 
to the following are often addressed to 
magazine editors. Let us quote it with 
all its wonderful punctuation : 

Gentlemen: I am greatly in need of money 
at the present time. I have written some at 
the request of different publishers, of both 
poetry and prose; a man who is at the head 
of one Publishing House in Chicago, I have 
never yet seen him : told me by letter — that 
I was "a bright literary lady:" (but he only 
paid me — starving prices). I felt that that, 
was the highest compliment I had ever re- 
ceived; at that time I was a guest at a relatives 
house, artd I tried to keep that letter ; but 
without avail. 

I had been told by the sen'ant of the wife, 
of my relative, whose guest I was, that his 
wife meddled with my writings. I had not the 
convenience of locking them up securely. I 
would as soon cut my own hand off, as I 
would have read the contents of a postal card, 
addressed to her name; but a letter is a more 
sacred thing. I am a mother, and at a very 
early age of their life, I taught each one, the 
dishonor of reading the letter of another per- 
son, without his or her permission. 

I would like to take The Management of 
Children, — for my subject: but if you prefer 
to give me a subject, it will be equally as easy 
a task for me. 

Pleading most earnestly, for a position as 
one of your contributors: I shall impatiently 
await your reply. 

Most Respectfully yours: 

The reading of manuscripts is a weari- 



some task, and the letters which accom- 
pany the majority of them are usually un- 
interesting enough. But often a delicious 
epistle will come that causes the most lan- 
guid editor to smile, and lightens the 
cares of the day's work. He sometimes 
gains such an insight, through one of 
these notes, into the secret affairs of his 
distant correspondents, as would have de- 
lighted the soul of Balzac. Take this, for 
example, which came from a California 
woman who had sent under another cover 
the closely written pages of an intermin- 
able novel ; 

I am most ambitious to appear in the lead- 
ing magazines and papers throughout the 
country, and if you hke the first hundred thou- 
sand words of my novel, I will send you the 
rest as soon as it is completed. I am working 
hard on it now. My husband idles his days 
away. He will not work, but is only too will- 
ing to sleep, and I have to do something to 
support the family. I am conscientious about 
my literary work, and feel sure that I was cut 
out to be an author. I cannot afford to pay the 
express charges on my story, so send it at 
your expense. If you return it — and oh, I pray 
you won't ! — please prepay the package, for 
we are very, very poor. I have been writing 
ever since I was a child, and I am now forty- 
three years old, but I have never had anything 
published either in a paper or a book. But I 
know I am just as big a genius as Hall Caine, 
only I have never had the chances he has. We 
have had hard bacon for breakfast so long 
that I'm tired of it ; so please hurry my check 
if you accept my story, as I would like a 
change of food, and also I would like to sur- 
prise my indolent husband. 

The same post brought the following 

note from the same town : 

Dear Sir: By this mail I understand that 
my daughter, who is married, is sending you 
a pleading letter — I know it must be pleading, 
for she has been writing them for years — and 
a big manuscript. I beg you to believe it will 
be the greatest kindness if you will pay no sort 
of attention to her story or her letter. She is 
the mother of three young children, and while 
her husband docs all he can to support her 
and them, he cannot earn very much, owing to 
a heart weakness. She should take in wash- 
ing, as I have had to do, and try to help out, 
by that instead of by writing fool stories. 
She has always had an idea that she was a 
great author, and we cannot keep the pencil 
out of her hand, although we hide it and the 
paper pads too. If she wou^ spend more time 
in doing honest, sensible work instead of 
wasting her days in composing novels that I 
know are trash, she would be better off. So 
please don't answer her request, and don't 
encourage her in any way. I am her mother, 
and I know. Yours in all sincerity, 

It is strange how countless are those 
who take to literature in order to make a 

livelihood, when they would be better 
occupied in the most menial manual la- 
bour. One of the saddest things an editor 
encounters is this waste of energy in 
ignorant, or at least semi-ignorant, peo- 
ple. They seem never to weary of their 
efforts, and day after day their sorrowful 
manuscripts flock to the judgment desk. 
No one takes to painting in this way, or — 
to street-cleaning. Perhaps it is the 
deathless desire to see one^s name in print 
which causes this fearful, unending band 
to work so ceaselessly. But even sadder 
still it is when an editor's personal 
friends, who have hitherto been in the in- 
surance business or have been managers 
of shoe-factories, solemnly take up the 
pen. **Smith is running a magazine,*' 
they will say ; **he will help me along. It 
is so easy to write." Previous normal 
ambitions are forgotten ; the square of 
land and the wholesale price of leathe** 
are relegated to oblivion. These big sane 
men sit up nights to finish a problem 
novel or a five-hundred line epic. They 
forward their manuscripts to Smith with 
absolute confidence, saying, in a little 
note, **I know if I haven't punctuated this 
all right you'll fix it up" ; or, "if the 
rhymes aren't perfect, you can easily 
remedy such a trifle." And when Smith 
is forced, through a sense of duty, to re- 
turn their contributions, they cease to 
speak to him. 

The class of people who demand that 
their cfTusions be accepted is of course 
only to be laughed at ; but there is another 
class which is really to be pitied. Even 
in the hurlv-burlv of his work, he would 
indeed be a hard-hearted editor who did 
not pause to wonder if the writer of the 
following note carried out his threat : 

Derc sir : i am in poverty. Unless you ex- 
cept this pome by leven oclock thursday morn- 
ing i will jump into the hudson river, do not 
think i am fooling, i am in ernest. i have 
strugled two hard and i am tired of being 

Such letters are by no means infre- 
quent. They are probably genuine, but 
of course they emanate from disorganized 
brains ; yet they are wofully pathetic and 
make an impression upon the most indif- 
ferent. Almost invariably, however, no 
definite address is given. The following 
note reveals an equally hopeless state of 

Dear Sir — I wrote to you sometime ago and 



sent a poem — I was actually suffering for food 
and I know my work was all right. Your 
answer was a printed notice saying you would 
be pleased to hear from me again. Now I am 
suffering for food and shelter and shoes and 
actual living necessities. My rent is overdue 
two weeks, and neighbors are helping me until 
help comes. Now I have a number of poems 
— first class, and should not be suffering when 
I am so tallented. But I will not give out any 
more of my work without money. Will you 
send some one quickly to interview me — as I 
have no care fare and actually borrowed for 

faper and stamp. I have beautiful poems. But 
will not trust any more. * I have been fooled 
enough and my suffering now is too great. I 
sent you one called "A Suicide." I thought it 
would reach your sympathy. But it failed to 
do so. Please dont fail me now, for I am a 

One reads, sometimes, in articles of 
"Advice to Young Authors," that it is 
best not to enclose any letter at all when 
forwarding a manuscript. The latter will 
speak for itself. It is true that the ma- 
jority of notes accompanying stories or 
poems are superfluous: and they are 
never kept on file in editorial offices, ex- 
cept in rare instances. There is a well- 
known poet, however, whose finished 
lyrics are appreciated by thousands of 
verse-lovers, and the editor of one maga- 
zine, at least, would regret the absence 
of the delightful little rhymes which in- 
variably accompany those sent for pub- 
lication. With a Valeniine poem recently 
came this bit : 

Dear Editors: 

When February comes around 

And roses (save those in the ground) 

Will very probably be found 

At florists only, 
Perhaps from off the lyric vine 
You may remove this Valentine, 
And keep the roses — yours and mine — 

From feeling lonely. 

A clever verse was accompanied by 

Dul}' — ^but not Dooley — done 
So it is not truly Dunne. 
And for these tricks 
The dollars six 
Are not an unruly dun! 

And this he wrote one day : 

As you will see, this lyric turns 
Upon a song by Bobbie Bums. 
You like the one by Robert B.- 

Perhaps you'll like this one by me. 

The Greatest Feat of Magic Ever Performed. 

For some time we have intended to 
call attention to an article by Professor 
J>rander Matthews, which appeared in 
Scribncr*s Magazine for May of this 
year. The article was about what Pro- 
fessor Matthews called "The Greatest 
Feat of Magic Ever Performed,'* and 
was notable in that the writer offered a 
very convincing solution of a feat of 
which the performer, the great Robert 
rioudin, in his Memoirs did not reveal 
the secret. Houdin told the story of the 
trick, but only on one point did he even 
hint at anything which would serve to 
clear away the mystery. In 1846 the 
magician was at the height of his popu- 
larity, and upon one occasion was invited 
to Saint Cloud to give an exhibition of 
his dexterity before Louis Philippe, the 
royal family, and the Court. The per- 
formance was given in one of the draw- 
ing rooms of the palace within a certain 
number of square feet inclosed by silken 
ropes, and Houdin with only his young 
son as an assistant could not relv for his 
effects upon the tricks of lights and 
mechanism which would have been at 
his disposal had he been exhibiting on 
the stage of his own theatre. Neverthe- 
less, despite these handicaps, the conjuror 
not only gave an admirable i)erformance, 
but he brought it to a conclusion by a 
trick that was invented especially for the 
occasion — the trick to which Professor 
Matthews refers as the greatest feat of 
magic ever performed. 

Houdin borrowed from the noble spec- 
tators several handkerchiefs, which he 
made into a parcel, and laid on the table. 
Then, at his request, different persons 
wrote on cards which the conjuror 
handed about, the names of places 
whither thev desired their handkerchiefs 
to be invisibly transported. When this 
had been done, Houdin approached the 
King and begged him to take three of 
the cards at hazard and choose from them 
the place he might consider most suitable. 
"Let us see," Louis Philippe said, "what 
this one says: *I desire the handkerchiefs 
to be found beneath one of the candelabra 
on the mantelpiece.' That is too easy for 
a sorcerer: so we will pass to the next 
card : The handkerchiefs are to be trans- 
ported to the dome of the Invalides.' 



Tfait vonld snh ine. hat it 15 nradi too 
br, not for the handkcrchicts. bnt for ns. 
Ab, ahr tbc Kin^ added, kwkii^ ai 
die last card. **I ani afraid. Monsinir 
Kobcft-Hoiidm. I am about to embarrass 
yon. Do TOO know what this card pro- 
BOBC*?" *'\ViIl Tonr Majesn^ deign 10 in- 
fonn me?^ ~It b desired that yon frboold 
seod the handkenjiiet's into the diest 01 
Ae bst oran^ tree on the right of the 
■varae." "Only that. Sirer Deign to 
order, and I will obey." '"\"er>- good. 

its pJace. An anendun in vten ii mas 
inqiossiUe 10 sns^Ni c^nnsaan «as sen 
to the cvanj:? tree 10 open die diess. TUs 
W95 dc4x with confadnaiUe ififficnlty. Ac 
anendani thma in his hand, and, witfa a 
ery of surprise, drew oat a saall iron 
'coffer eaten b>- roa. The loi^ ashed 
whether the handkerchief were to be 
foond in this coder. ~Yes. sxre." T«|i£ed 
HondiiL "and ibey have been liiere;. tool 
for a long period." "How can that her 
The handkerthiefs were km yvn scarce a 

then; I should like to see such a magic 
act I, therefore, ch^x^^e the orange tree 
chest." The King gave an nnler in a low 
Toice and a mimlx-r of attendants im- 
mediately ran out to guard the orange 
tree, in order to prevent any fraud. 
Houdin placed the hanfikerchieij; beneath 
a bell of opafitie glass, and taking his 
wand, he ordere<i them to proceed to the 

r chosen by the King. Then he raised 
bell ; the little parcel was no longer 
tfiffTg, but a white turtle dove had taken 

qtianer ol an hour ag\^." "I canuM denv 
it. Sire : but what would my magic powers 
avail me if 1 cindd not perform incom- 
prehensible tricks? Your Majestr will 
doubtless be more surprised when I'prow 
that this coffer, as well as its contents, 
was depositeil in the chest of the orange 
tree sixty years ago. If ^-our Majestv 
will be k-ind enough to open this casket 
the proof will be supplietl. Deign to re- 
move from the neck of this turtle dove the 
key of the casket which it \as just 



brought you." The King unfastened a 
ribbon that held a small rusty key, un- 
locked the coffer, and read the following : 

This day, the sixth of June, 1786. This iron 
box, containing six handkerchiefs was placed 
among the roots of an orange tree by nie, 
Balsamo, Count of Caghostro, to serve in per- 
forming an act of magic, which will be exe- 
cuted on the same day sixty years hence before 
Louis Phihppe of Orleans and his family. 

Underneath the parchment containing 
these words was found a parcel which, 
when opened, was seen to contain the six 
handkerchiefs which had been placed on 
the table only a few minutes before. 

This is the story of the trick as it was 
told by Houdin in his Memoirs. The ma- 
gician offered nothing in explanation be- 
yond dropping a hint that he had pro- 
cured a duplicate of Cagliostro's seal 
from a fellow magician some time before. 
Professor Matthews, however, in his 
article guesses at the manner in which the 
feat was done in a way that is, to say the 
least, ingenious and plausible. According 
to him it was less a trick than a shrewd 
bit of psychological guessing on the part 
of Houdin, who knew Louis Philippe to 
be clever in small things, and divined 
which of three cards the King would 
choose. To a conjuror of Houdin 's at- 
tainments it was, of course, the merest 
child's play to make the King take among 
the cards on which the guests had written, 
three which Houdin himself had prepared. 
He knew that the first place of conceal- 
ment suggested would be dismissed from 
the King's mind on the ground that it 
was far too easv. The second was cer- 
tainly difficult enough, but it was entirely 
too far away. The third place, being 
both difificult and convenient, was un- 
doubtedly the one which would be chosen. 
In other words, Houdin played a varia- 
tion on the guessing game invented by 
Poe's boy with the marbles. The rusty 
coffer had been prepared and placed in 
the chest of the orange tree days before, 
the substitution of the turtle dove for the 
parcel of handkerchiefs was in Houdin's 
every day repertory, and the whole feat 
becomes simplicity itself. 

Professor Matthews's amusing article 
had the effect of sending us back to re- 
read the Memoirs of the man who was 
unquestionably the most extraordinary 

conjuror of modern times. His attain- 
ments not only won him wide success on 
the stage of his own theatre ;• they ob- 
tained for him official recognition and 
made him for a time a dignified represen- 
tative of the French Government. In de- 
veloping the African Empire in the fifties 
the French administrators were harried 
and hampered by the fanatical Mara- 
bouts, who by their tricks of juggling 
easily persuaded their followers that they 
possessed supernatural powers and used 
this belief to stir up insurrections against 
the French domination. It was impos- 
sible to counteract this malevolent influ- 
ence by ordinary means, so it was de- 
cided to invite the great Robert Houdin 
to Algeria in order to pit his magic 
against that of the Marabouts. So the 
conjuror went out to the Colony as a 
great personage. Of course his task was 
mere child's play and he not only over- 
threw the influence of the Marabouts by 
the performance of feats which made 
those of his antagonists seem infantile, 
but he astounded the Marabouts them- 
selves. Nevertheless this expedition was 
not without its dangers. On the stage of 
the theatre in Algiers he had allowed 
himself to be shot at with pistols loaded 
by the Marabouts. On one occasion on 
a trip to the interior of the country when 
he was absolutely without the necessary 
tools it was insisted that he repeat the 
experiment. Houdin confesses that he 
was in a tight fix and was thoroughly 
frightened. Nevertheless he did not al- 
low this to be seen. He explained that 
he was without his charmed talisman 
which was absolutelv essential if the feat 
was to be performed at once, but added 
that he might do without it if they were 
willing to wait until the next morn- 
ing, in order that he might pass the night 
in prayer. Houdin did not spend the 
night in prayer : he employed about two 
hours in insuring his invulnerability and 
then went soundly to sleep. The next 
morning the test was made before a great 
crowd of Arabs. Houdin insisted that 
the pistols should be loaded by the Mara- 
bouts themselves in the sight of every one 
and then calmly took his place and gave 
the signal. The pistol went off and an 
instant later the conjuror opened his lips 
showing the bullet between his teeth. 
The infuriated Marabout tried to seize 
the other pistol, but Houdin reached it 



one would licar one sturlcnt on the Pan- 
thton Icrrassc say to another. "Sure?" 
"Quite; and he has gone home to his 
people. I saw his frock-coat — the one 
with the broad velvet collar and the but- 
tons missing — on 'Bibi' yesterday." 
"Bibi" got every one's old clothes, and 
bought them with old jokes and anec- 
dotes. He was the slippered Pantaloon, 
tricked ont en arlcquin, and when he died 
last week, at si.^ty-seven, sans money, 
sans food, sans soap, sans everything 
save his perennial gaiety, in the Hotel 
Dieii, the Paris pauper hospital, where 
the other outcasts looked up to "Mon- 
sieur Bibi" as a demi-god. he left this 
world with a jest on his lips. 
"His name was Andre Sahs, and he 
failed to pass his law examinations in the 
Quarter five-and-forty years ago. He 
loved the careless and unstiulying student 
life, but drink and utter laziness soon 
dragged him down into Bohemianism's 
lowest depths, where dirt was nature, 
work a crime, and borrowing the only 
means of livelihood. He lived with and. 


before him. "You coidd not injure me," 
said the conjuror, "but you shall now see 
that my aim is more dangerous than 
yours. Look at that wall." He pulled 
the trigger, and on the newly white- 
washed wall appeared a large patch of 
blood, exactly at the spot where lie had 
aimed. The spectators raised their eyes 
to heaven, muttered prayers, and re- 
garded this European magician with a 
species of terror. 

The Late "M. Bibi." 
"Our maiden annts would not approve 
of 'Bibi,' " wrote recently the Paris corre- 
spondent of the London Sketch, "but he 
is dead and so de inorluis." Besides, I 
must confess that all the youth in me 
warmed sympathetically each time I met 
' the stooping, shambling figure, with ab- 
sinthe-washed eyes, Voltaire-like and un- 
shaven face, long elf-locks, and the cos- 
tume reminiscent of his charitable friends. 
"Jacques has passed his examination," 


rU m , 






when the poet had money, on Verlaine, 
and since his death the poor old reprobate 
'Bibi' usually went hungry, for fried po- 
tatoes, bought in halfpennyworths, are not 
very nourishing, and. though few people 
whom he met upon his prowlings failed 
to put up drinks, solids were rarely of- 
fered him. Had 'Dibi' cared to work, he 
might have been a brilliant writer. His 
gift for repartee was wonderful, and 
there were not many in the Quarter who 

cared to cross wits with him a second 
lime. One noted Journalist — he is a 
member of the Cabinet to-day — who was 
notorious for personal untidiness, once 
tried to make a bult of 'Bibi' and offered 
him a franc 'to get a bath." 'Divisons, 
voulez-vous ?■ said the old scallywag, 
quite quietly, and a great roar of laugh- 
ter, in which the victim joined, showed 
that the day had gone against the jour- 


With Drawing;s by Walter Hale. 

The title of iVesltford-Ho is a trifle 
misleading to one who, by some strange 
fatality, did not receive the book either 
as a birthday or a Christmas gift in the 
days of youth. It is associated with the 
period giving rise to that classic utter- 
ance: "Go West, young man," and sug- 
gests long lines of prairie schooners with 
Indians lurking in the grass, rather than 
the galleons of the sixteenth century that 
"sailed the Spanish Main." We note that 
"sailing the Spanish Main" gives us the 
same thrill that it did many years ago, 
and some of us are still as pleasantly un- 
certain as to the whereabouts of the Main 
as we were then. A certain stickler on 
such subjects, declares the Main to be 
that part of the Atlantic which is 
"bounded on the south" by (he Spanish 
possessions of South America : and that 
is doubtless true, for it was to this quarter 

that Amyas Leigh, the hero of Charles 
Kingsley's novel, steered his gallant bark 
— or words to that effect. 

Amyas. it will be remembered, came 
from Bideford, North Devon, and was 
one of so many lovers of the fair "Rose 
of Torridge" that the ship which went in 
quest of her was mannetl largely by her 
suitors, who sailed the seas in perfect 
amity. The "Rose of Torridge" eloped 
with a Spanish prisoner of (juality who 
was held for ransom in llideford or there- 
abouts, and together they fied to La 
Guayra — La Guayra of \'enezuela, and 
the newspapers, and the blockade of last 
winter. Don Guzman married the lady, 
and from all accounts they would have 
been a happy pair in the Governor's house 
on the hill had it not devolved upon 
Amyas to rescue her. upon his brother to 
die for her, and U]K>n their cousin, Eu- 


4 i% 



stace, who had already threatened her 
with "Mark you, fair beauty," to hand her 
over to the Inquisition, The warships 
which rotle at anchor during the gentle 
blockade last winter would not have dis- 
concerted A my as. He might have 
puzzled a bit over the absurd construc- 
tion of these representatives of the Euro- 
pean Powers, but he would have praised 
God, eaten breakfast, and cleared the 
decks for action, for an engagement with 
this strange prey as eagerly as he did for 
the black hulled frigate, and the two low 

ugly looking galleys which he found 
within the harbour. The appearance of 
the country of Venezuela (which Mr. 
Kingsley, or Amyas, knew as "Carrac- 
cas") does not fluctuate with the varying 
moods of the natives. "So Westward-ho 
they ran — beneath the northern wall, the 
highest cliflF on earth — " the author wrote 
of La Sill a, the greatest peak of the 
range, and impregnable he naively states 
"to all but Englishmen — and zouaves," 
The hearts of the war correspondents will 
throb responsively to the description of 


the town itself which one writer of this 
day likens to a Frankfurter in shape, a 
hot one he should add, for, as Amyas 
found it, "In spite of the shadow of the 
mountain, the whole place wore a dusty 
and glaring look. The breaths of air that 
came off the land were utterly stifling; 
and no wonder, for La Guayra, owing to 
: the radiation of that vast brickwork of 
heated rock, is one of the hottest spots 
on the face of the earth." 

The men from Devon laid very little 
stress on the odours of La Guayra. It 
is possible that the sanitary arrangements 
of Bideford itself were not all that they 
should have been in 1580, but they con- 
stitute a large part of the atmosphere of 
every lotus eating country, and, after a 
few weeks of them, yellow fever sweeps 
down upon the stranger and he is carried 
into the hills as were the crew of the 
"Rose." From these mountains the men 
wandered into the interior looking for a 
city of gold, and finding a wife for 
Amyas, who was struck with blindness 
before he felt the need of her. When 
men of the calibre of Drake, Hawkins, 

Frobisher, and Raleigh felt the elation of 
this gold quest, it is not to be wondered 
that the seamen of their day were ready 
to endure the perils of the tropics to sat- 
isfy their greed. South America is still 
the region of unexplored riches, though 
the wealth is locked within her hills, to 
be opened to the conqueror through the 
flourishing of a franchise and not an 
arquebus. Hunting the Spaniard is still 
something of a game, but the South 
American specimen has so deteriorated 
that the powerful nations punish him oc- 
casionally purely "for his own good," 
parade warships as a sort of policeman to 
the infantile mind, and let him out of the 
comer when he promises to be good. 
The Spaniards trace the beginning of 
their downfall to the men of the time of 
Amyas Leigh. It may be so — ^but it 
makes good reading! The little repub- 
lics are so continually warring upon 
themselves that Kingsley may outlast 
them, for literature does not change its 
style as quickly as a South American 
Republic does its President. 

Louise Closser Hale. 



WHILE yet in my teens, the 
fame of Byron and Scott, of 
Poe and Tennyson, and other 
illustrious poets filled me with 
a desire for literary distinction. With all 
the confidence of youth, and the presump- 
tion of ignorance, I wrote to Dr. Oliver 
Wendell Holmes, telling him with easy 
assurance, that I was well-fitted by my 
tastes, education and accomplishments — 
(I was a college-bred shorthand writer 
with literary aspirations) for the posi- 
tion of amanuensis to a literary man, and 
suggested that, perhaps, he might require 
my services ; but, if he did not, would he 
be so kind as to recommend me to some 
one who did ; also to use his influence to 
open a way for me to some good maga- 
zine that paid well, adding that, as I was 

looking up to the "glory-crowned 
heights" where 

"Fame's proud temple shines afar," 

I did not expect to be treated with cold 
indifference, but with kindness and sym- 

The good-natured Doctor, compassion- 
ating my inexperience, wrote me a very 
kind letter, which I quote for the benefit 
of other young men and women who have 
literary aspirations : 

Boston, December 6, i8 — . 
Dear Sir: — I regret that it is not in my 
power to direct you to any place of*employ- 
ment such as you desire. In a city hke this 
the crowding to all such employments is very 
great and there are a very few situations to be 
divided among a great number of applicants. 
As for myself, I am not (as I am often sup- 
posed to be) an editor, and have no writing 



to do which I am not competent to do myself 
with a little occasional aid from members of 
my own family. I regret not to be able to 
give you encouragement as to employment in 
Boston, but the truth is there is next to none 
of the kind you mention, as most of our writ- 
ers are as poor as rats themselves and no more 
able to keep an amanuensis than they are to 
set up a coach and six. 

I do not even know how to advise you be- 
yond this simple counsel which I have occa- 
sionally given to young aspirants: 

If you think you have literary talents, write 
something for the best paper or magazine you 
can get into, keep to one signature, and you 
will be found out by a public which is ready 
to pay the highest price for almost every kind 
of literary ability. If you do not think you 
can make a reputation, why not become a re- 
porter for a newspaper? At any rate you 
stand a much better chance of finding occupa- 
tion at home, where you are known, than 
among strangers. I do not "turn from your 
petition with cold indifference," but it is 
utterly out of my power to do more than give 
you these few words of friendly advice. 

Yours very truly, 

O. W. Holmes. 

This letter was kind, but it knocked on 
the head my fond hope of waking some 
fine morning, like Byron, and finding my- 
self famous. As the good Doctor did not 
suggest the probability of getting an 
opening for me in any "magazine that 
paid well," as I had requested him to do, 
I had to do the best I could for myself, 
which was what others have done before 
and since — I made an op)ening for my- 
self in the Home Journal, I wrote nu- 
merous sketches for this periodical, and 
received praise from N. P. Willis, and 
puffs from Mr. Morris Phillips, the 
editor and business manager; but when 
I ventured to suggest that a slight com- 
pensation would be acceptable, I was in- 
formed that it was such a distinction to 
write for the Home Journal that more 
gratuitous contributions were offered 
than it could print, and that "Mr. Willis 
has often remarked that 'we might! sell it 
for a high price.' " This "misunder- 
standing" occurred with the Home Jour- 
nal in the midst of the publication of a 
serial story which I was writing for it, 
and I missed the opportunity of my life 
by not refusing to send any more copy 
until some satisfactory arrangement was 
effected But I was young then, and I 
did not know that authors had any rights 
which editors were bound to respect. So 
I finished my story, and finished also my 
writing for the Home Journal, 

Soon after this first literary experience 

I saw an advertisement in a Philadelphia 
newspaper, asking for contributions to a 
magazine. I offered my services, and 
was informed that the magazine wanted 
historical and critical essays, for which 
one dollar a printed page would be paid, 
each article being limited to ten pages. 
This was not a verv brilliant offer, but it 
was a beginning, and I accepted it. I 
continued this literary drudgery for sev- 
eral months, and then obtained employ- 
ment upon a quarterly review, upon the 
same terms p)er page, but with p)ermission 
to write double the number of pages per 
article. The articles for both of these 
periodicals required reading and scholar- 
ship; they could not be dashed off cur- 
rente c alamo, but days and weeks were 
sp)ent in ransacking libraries as a prepara- 
tion for their composition. This was in 
those ancient days before the passing of 
the essay ; and the articles which I wrote 
were historical essays. The names will 
explain their character "Ancient and 
Modern Civilization," "Elizabeth and her 
Courtiers," "The Wits of the Age of 
Queen Anne," etc. 

By the end of six months,! had received 
$80. Never have I worked so hard, and 
received so little; in fact, I have since 
made more money in six days than I did 
in six months on the work which I have 
mentioned. Still, I was not discouraged ; 
for, like Ferdinand in The Tempest, I 
was inspired by the thought that "some 
poor matters point to rich ends," and 
that the literary drudgery I was then en- 
gaged in, might be "the stepping-stone to 
higher things." Just about this time I 
did what thousands of ambitious young 
men have done before and since. I went 
to New York to seek my fortune in jour- 
nalism. I secured a position on the staff 
of the World as a shorthand reporter. 
The editor of the World at that time was 
Manton Marble; the managing editor 
was David G. Croly ; the city editor was 
Lemuel Israels ; and among the reporters 
were George Wakeman, one of the fast- 
est shorthand writers and most accom- 
plished journalists that have ever been on 
the New York press; St. Clair McKel- 
way, at that time famous among reporters 
for his brilliant powers of description. 
He is at present the editor of the Brook- 
lyn Eagle; T. M. C. Meighan» afterwards 
city editor of the New York Herald; 
Theodore Davies, the clever son of Chief 


Justice Davies of the Supreme Court of 
New York, besides others, forming alto- 
gether, a staff which Mr. Marble said 
could not be surpassed by any other 
newspaper in the United States. 

My work was light and interesting, the 
pay good for the time, and my associates 
very congenial; but I was not satisfied. 
I was ambitious to be an editor. So I 
left the World, returned to my home in 
Baltimore, and started Southern Society, 
The entire literary talent of the South 
was engaged, and Southern Society was 
pronounced the best and the most beau- 
tiful weekly journal in the country. Wil- 
liam Gilmore Simms was paid $50 a 
week; Paul H. Hayne received $25 for 
three small poems; John R. Thompson 
asked and received the same amount for 
"Music in Camp," a beautiful poem, 
which was copied by many newspapers, 
and became a part of the war literature 
of the South. Father Rvan contributed 
"In Memoriam," a pathetic dirge in 
memory of his young brother who was 
killed at the Battle of Fredericksburg. 
John Esten Cooke was paid $500 for a 
serial story. Hilt to Hilt, Fanny Down- 
ing received $25 for a short story ; and 
thus the money went. But subscriptions 
did not come in very freely, and, in six 
months all my money was gone» and the 
paper was losing $100 a week. I thought 
it time to discontinue "the best and most 
beautiful weekly in the country," and I 

I resumed my original profession-r- 
shorthand — and was appointed the official 
stenographer of the Orphans* Court of 
Baltimore. This position paid well, but 
the work was not congenial ; the caco'ethes 
scribendi still tormented me — I longed to 
return to my first love, literature. Balti- 
more offered no opportunity then, nor has 
it since. The city had no publishing 
house, no literary periodical, daily, week- 
ly, or monthly, and no literary men. 
While possessing every social attraction, 
so far as literature was concerned I might 
as well have lived in the Desert of 

The Earl of Beaconsfield said: "The 
impossible will happen to-morrow." 
Gambetta and Tennyson said: "Every- 
thing comes to him who waits." Edmund 
Burke said: "Despair, but, even in de- 
spair, work on." I waited. I worked 
on; and, what seemed "the impossible," 

happened. I had heard that Chief Justice 
Chase was particularly kind to the young 
in what Bulwer calls "the first barren 
footpath up the mountain of life." I 
wrote a letter to the Chief Justice, stating 
my case frankly, and asked him if he 
would not interest himself in my behalf. 
I told him that I was young, ambitious, 
a stenographer, a journalist, a student of 
literature, and wanted to be a man of let- 
ters. The next day, I heard from the 
Chief Justice. I quote from his auto- 
graph letter (which I keep as one of my 
most valuable possessions) the following 
passage : 

"Your letter has interested me. It always 
gives me pleasure to aid, if I can, *a young 
man struggling for an honorable livelihood.* 
Your penmanship and style of composition arc 
unexceptionable; and if your qualifications, in 
other respects are equal, I cannot doubt that 
you will make a very useful Assistant Marshal 
of the Supreme Court, deputed to act for me 
as Clerk for Bankrupt matters, etc. The gen- 
tleman who has been performing the duties of 
the office is absent, and if you can come to 
Washington, you can have his place for a few 
days, and perhaps longer; if not, something 
else as desirable may be obtained. The salary 
is $150 a month." 

I took the first train for Washington ; 
had a most satisfactory interview with the 
Chief Justice; and the next day entered 
upon my duties. I soon found that, al- 
though I was officially designated as As- 
sistant Marshal of the Supreme Court, 
and so appeared on the pay-roll, I was 
really the Private Secretary to the Chief 
Justice of the United States. It was a re- 
sponsible and confidential position. When 
I entered upon my duties, the Chief said 
to me that whatever I saw or heard was 
private and must not be repeated, or pub- 
lished. I never forgot this advice, and 
acted accordingly. My duties began at 
nine o'clock, when I was due at the home 
of the Chief Justice; my office hours 
were passed in his library. The work 
was light and agreeable, but, unfortunate- 
ly, was done chiefly at night. The Chief 
Justice took a personal interest in my af- 
fairs, and encouraged my literary tastes. 
He gave me a letter to Mr. Whitelaw 
Reid, the managing editor of the New 
York Tribune, which resulted in a con- 
nection with that newspap)er, as contribu- 
tor and correspondent, for several years ; 
he introduced me personally, to Colonel 
Don Piatt, the editor of the Washington 
Capital, who engaged me as a r^^lar 



contributor, and, later, placed me in 
charge of the Baltimore office of the 
paper. During the first winter of my 
residence in Washington, Edwin M. 
Stanton died. He had been a colleague 
of Mr. Chase in President Lincoln's 
Cabinet. The sudden death of the for- 
mer War Minister afforded me an op- 
portunity for a timely magazine article. 
The Chief Justice kept a diary during the 
whole of his public life. From it he dic- 
tated some interesting secret history of 
the war in which the dead statesman had 
taken part. I prepared a short article, 
and sent it to the editor of Lippincotfs 
Magazine, It was just in time for the 
next number, and was the beginning of 
a very agreeable and profitable acquaint- 
ance. Mr. Lloyd P. Smith, the editor 
of the magazine, visited Washington ; we 
dined together. I showed him around 
the city, introduced him to desirable per- 
sons, and did all in my power to make 
his visit agreeable. Many years ago, 
Bulwer said: "If vou want to be re- 
viewed favorably, cultivate the review- 
ers." I found that if you want your 
articles accepted, cultivate the editors. 
So long as Mr. Smith was the editor of 
Lippincott's Magazine, no article of mine 
was declined, and this favour continued 
under his successor, Mr. Kirk. Mr. 
Cleveland recently remarked that "perse- 
verance is better than pull" in jorder to 
get along in the world. I must differ 
from the ex-President so far as literature 
is concerned. My own experience and 
that of others whom I have known shows 
that a "pull" is better than genius in get- 
ting one's work accepted. Not long 
since, a magazine editor of "wide experi- 
ence*' confessed that "it pays for an au- 
thor to make the acquaintance of the edi- 
tor, for it stands to reason that an editor 
knowing personally an author will give 
his matter more consideration than he 
would the matter of one whom he does 
not know." This simple fact accounts 
for the many dull articles which are pub- 
lished in the magazines, and the many 
good articles that fill the desks of authors 
who have no "pull." 

Of course, if an author can offer an 
editor a striking article on a fresh sub- 
ject, it stands a chance of being accepted 
whether he has a "pull," or not. But, if 
an author flatters himself that, because 
he has had one such article accepted, he 

has therefore a "pull" on that editor, he 
will find himself lamentably mistaken, 
should he send him an ordinary article. 
I have discovered that to my disappoint- 
ment more than once. When I offered 
"The Baltimore Bonapartes" to Scribners 
it was accepted because the subject was 
interesting and the article historically cor- 
rect. It proved a great success; it was 
quoted by the press ; it was much talked 
about and a second edition of the maga- 
zine was required to meet the demand. 
I had made a hit. I thought my literary 
fortune was made. I was mistaken. I 
had not cultivated the acquaintance of the 
editor of Scribner's, I had no "pull." 
So, I could not get another article in it 
for four years, when I offered Madame 
Bonaparte's Letters front Europe. The 
story of this literary "find" is interesting. 
When the old Patterson mansion on 
South Street, in Baltimore, was pulled 
down, the vast collection of familv let- 
ters, which had been accumulating for 
seventy-five years, was sold to a junk 
dealer. A curio fancier, in raking among 
the rubbish, chanced upon a bundle of let- 
ters, indorsed "From Betsy." He found 
they were letters written by Elizabeth 
Patterson to her father, William Patter- 
son, from Europe, from 1805 to 1835. 
He saw their value, and took them to his 
lawyer, who happened to be a friend of 
mine. I was told of the "find," and the 
letters were submitted to me. I com- 
municated the matter to the editor of 
Scribner's, who remembering the sensa- 
tion created bv the article on The Balti- 
more Bonapartes, asked me to write three 
articles, using Madame Bonaparte's let- 
ters as the basis. In the meantime, 
Madame Bonaparte died in Baltimore, 
aged ninety-five, and I went to work on 
her life for immediate publication. Two 
of the articles were published (in June 
and July, 1879) but the Life and Letters 
of Madame Bonaparte, coming out at the 
end of July, made the third article in the 
magazine unnecessary. The Life was 
written in five weeks ; went through four 
editions in a month; an English edition 
soon passed to a third edition ; and, later, 
a French edition was published in Paris. 
I was, naturally, delighted by this suc- 
cess, and expected to realize, from all 
these editions, at home and abroad, a 
small fortune from my book. Imagine 
my surprise and disappointment when I 


received as a first payment a check for 
$171.75, followed at long intervals during 
five years by various small checks, 
amounting altogether to $255.60, includ- 
ing the American and English editions. 
From the French edition, I received noth- 
ing; the translator, who was a Greek, 
swindled me out of the money he agreed 
to pay me. 

For ten years and more, I collected 
everything accessible on the subject of 
Edgar A. Poe. I interviewed his sur- 
viving relatives and friends ; I ransacked 
libraries, I hunted up old magazines and 
newspapers, I read sketches by the hun- 
dred, biographies by the score, lives by 
the dozen — in fact, I lived and breathed 
in a Poetic atmosphere. I talked Poe in 
and out of season. I filled note-books. 
I filled scrap-books. I filled my library 
with Poe. I found out when and where 
he was born, when and where he was 
buried, all of which had been a matter of 
doubt for twenty years after his death. His 
aunt, Mrs. Clemm, told me the day and 
place of his birth ; the sexton who buried 
him pointed out his grave. 

Having obtained all the Poeana that 
was possible, I wrote the Life of Edgar 
A, Poe, It was for me a labor of love, 
for from my earliest youth I had been an 
admirer of the author of '*The Raven.'* 
As I had all the material in hand, the life 
was written in a few months. I told the 
sad but interesting story of the poet's 
life as it was revealed to me after patient 
study and research. It did much to rescue 
the name and fame of our greatest genius 
from the infamy with which the malig- 
nant pen of his first biographer had black- 
ened his memory. It seems almost in- 
credible at the present time that, twenty- 
five years ago, many persons actually 
believed the author of "The Raven" was 
a drunken vagabond, a man whose hand 
was ever raised against the world, — a 
man whose genius found fit companions 
with the angels, but whose morals made 
him loved of devils. I rejoice that I had 
something to do with the removing of the 
infamy with which the name of Poe had 
so long suffered. The way thus opened, 
has been followed by Mr. Woodberry, 
Mr. Ingram, and Mr. Stedman, each of 
whom has done excellent work in this 

My Life of Poe has gone through nine- 
teen editions, and has been a great benefit 

to my literary reputation, since the ex- 
traordinary Poe cult commenced. I fol- 
lowed it with numerous articles on Poe, 
such as **Poe and Mrs. Whitman," **Re- 
cent Biographies of Poe," **Poe Bibliog- 
raphy,*' "The Portraits of Poe," "Poe's 
Early Home in Richmond," "Poe's 
Female Friends." "Poe, Real and Re- 
puted," "The Loves of Edgar A. Poe," 
"The Semi-Centennial of Poe's Death," 
etc. I mention these various articles in 
order to show the singular interest the 
world takes in the author of "The 
Raven." My knowledge of Poe's life and 
works opened for me several very de- 
sirable periodicals. The first article which 
I wrote for Applcton's Journal was "The 
Grave of Poe." The first article which 
I wrote for the International Reviciv was 
"Recent Biographies of Edgar A. Poe." 
The first article which I wrote for 
Godeys Magazine was "Poe, Real and 
Reputed." The last article which I have 
written on this subject was "Personal 
Recollections of Edgar A. Poe, by the 
Witnesses of His Life." This was writ- 
ten at the request of the editor of the 
Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post. It 
has not yet been published. It will con- 
tain portraits of Mrs. Clemm, John H. B. 
Latrobe, Professor Joseph H. Clarke, 
Gabriel Harrison^ and others, more or 
less associated with Poe during different 
periods of his life. 

I should have mentioned before that I 
was compelled to resign my position with 
Chief Justice Chase at the end of two 
vears, on account of the delicate condition 
of my eyes, caused by almost constant 
work at night. For six months after my 
resignation I could not use my eyes, and 
all my literary work had to be done by an 
amanuensis. It was slow and unsatisfac- 
tory, but it was the only way I could work 
during that winter of my discontent. For- 
tunately, as the spring opened, my eyes 
grew better, and I was able to resume 
my pen. I continued my contributions to 
the Ne7c York Tribune, and formed con- 
nections with other New York news- 
papers. I wrote, also, for Appletons 
Journal, the North American Revieiv, the 
Literary World of Boston, The Ameri- 
can of Philadelphia, Stoddart's Reviezv, 
the Magazine of American History, and 
the International Review, With the edi- 
tors of several of these periodicals, I 
formed quite a close acquaintance by cor- 



respondence, and my articles were pub- 
lished with delightful frequency. 

My connection with the Philadelphia 
American began in this way : 

"Plymouth, N. H., October 4, 1880. 
Dear Sir: — I write you in behalf of a new 
weekly paper — something between the Nation 
and the London Saturday Review in character, 
of which I am the Managing Editor. It will 
make its first appearance October i6th. I 
have already enlisted the services of E. C. 
Stedman, T. W. Higginson, Paul H. Hayne, 
Henry Watterson, and many others of equal 
and greater prominence. I should like to have 
your services, and, if convenient, an article of 
about 2000 words on 'Baltimoreans in Litera- 
ture,' for the MSS. of which I shall be happy 
to exchange my check. If you care to write, 
I should be glad to have the article — which i 
trust will lead to a mutually agreeable con- 
nection — by October i6th. I am, yours sin- 

W. R. Balch, Managing Editor. 

I publish this letter because it is pleas- 
ant to recall the beginning of a newspaper 
connection which proved one of the most 
satisfactory of my whole literary experi- 
ence. Mr. Balch was soon succeeded by 
Mr. Howard M. Jenkins, who asked me 
to prepare a series of papers on Paul H. 
Hayne, John Esten Cooke, and other 
Southern writers. I also did special re- 
viewing for the American, and wrote 
many papers on Southern social and lit- 
erary subjects. Equally agreeable was 
my acquaintance with Mr. Edward Ab- 
bott, the editor of the Literary World, 
who alwavs wrote briefly, and to the 
point, but with never-failing courtesy. 
The checks from him were always 
promptly sent, and satisfactory, excepting 
when I wrote a very exhaustive article 
on "The Portraits of Poe." On this oc- 
casion, he wrote : "We should feel very 
sorry to repel a valued contributor by 
paying him less than he thought his work 
was worth; we cannot always meet the 
expectations of our contributors. We 
feel that we did not meet yours in the case 
of *The Portraits of Poe.' If vou will 
tell us what you may expect for Toe in 
Richmond,' we can tell vou at once 
whether we can afford to take the 

I quote the above note as a specimen 
of the courtesy of editors twenty years 
ago, a courtesy which might be imitated 
with advantage by some of the lords of 
the press at the present time. In those 
good old days, printed slips to the re- 
'^cted were unknown — would-be con- 

tributors were treated with the polite con- 
sideration which one gentleman should 
show to another who is calling upon him. 
The insolent behaviour of some American 
editors is equivalent to slamming the door 
in the face of the visitor. I mention no 
names — those who offend in this respect 
should strike their breast, and say pec- 
cavi, and make a firm resolution to sin no 
more. Let them remember that it was 
said of the great Duke of Marlborough 
that it was more agreeable to be refuKed 
a favour by him than to have one granted 
by any other person. If these offending 
editors had the sense that Charles Dick- 
ens had, they would give clever unknown 
writers a cordial welcome, instead of 
treating them with cold indifference. He 
knew the value of new blood, and kept up 
the interest of his magazine by encourag- 
ing all the bright young writers of his 
time. He had a rare genius for discover- 
ing literary talent, and many gifted au- 
thors were indebted to his discernment 
for their introduction to the public. 

One of the worst effects of the per- 
nicious policy pursued by some wealthy 
periodicals of paying for the name of the 
writer instead of the merit of the writing 
was once shown by the Youth's Com- 
panion which paid James G. Blaine a 
good round sum for a dull article on the 
Congressional Globe, which could have 
been easily written by the youngest clerk 
of the Senate or House of Representa- 
tives, and for one-tenth of what Mr. 
Blaine was paid, but he was paid for his 
name, not for his work. The Ladies* 
Home Journal paid Dr. Talmage, the 
sensational preacher, $5000 a year for 
articles which, if sent by an unknown 
contributor, would, very properly, have 
been thrown into the waste basket, in- 
stead of being published. One of the 
most striking cases of **a name, not merit" 
was furnished by the octogenarian verses 
of Tennyson. In the full splendour of his 
intellect, he wrote some of the noblest 
poetry that genius has ever given to the 
world. But he out-lived his genius and in 
his last years wrote verses which the high 
and mighty magazine editors would have 
indignantly returned to an unknown writ- 
er, but, coming from Alfred, Lord Ten- 
nyson, the Poet Laureate of England, 
these same high and mighty editors grov' 
elled at his feet to get a few drivelling 
lines from him, yet some of these fellows 


have the effrontery to declare that they 
accept articles on their merits, and not 
on the names of the writers. 

The first article sent by me to Harper s 
Magazine was *'The American Graces," 
which told the story of the Misses Caton, 
three beautiful Baltimore sisters who 
married into noble English houses — the 
Duchess of Leeds, the Marchioness of 
WeMesley, and Lady Stafford. These 
ladies were the granddaughters of 
Charles Carroll of CarroUton, the last 
surviving Signer of the Declaration of 
Independence. This was followed by an 
article on "The Social Athens of Amer- 
ica," — Baltimore from a social point of 
view, with rare portraits of the belles and 
beauties, past and present of the Monu- 
mental City. This article proving suc- 
cessful, I was sent down to Richmond to 
write up that city on the same lines. I 
called this article "The Citv of Fair 
Women and Brave Men," which distinc- 
tive title was changed, without my per- 
mission to the trite and meaningless 
"Some Richmond Portraits," and, in or- 
der to fit the size of the article to the 
space at the disposal of the magazine, it 
was cut down unmercifully. Consequent- 
ly, the people of Richmond, who had re- 
ceived me with true Southern cordiality, 
received the magazine containing the 
article with mingled disappointment and 
indignation. A large portion of the latter 
was showered upon my devoted head as 
the author of the offending article ; the 
public, not being admitted to secrets of 
the sanctum, held me responsible. I felt 
indignant in my turn, and wrote the edi- 
tor a letter in which I expressed my feel- 
ing on the subject. This was a mistake : 
it is unwise, imprudent, impolitic to com- 
plain to an editor, for editors are very 
sensitive, and some of them have long 
memories. This misunderstanding with 
Harper's Magazine happened fifteen 
years ago, and no article of mine has been 
accepted by the same editor in all these 
years. Nota bene: avoid all misunder- 
standings with editors: pocket their 
checks and kicks with equal equanimity. 

I forgot to mention, when speaking of 
my Life and Letters of Madame Bona- 
parte, that the English edition came out 
just about the time the tragical death of 
the Prince Imperial called the attention 
of the world to the Bonaparte family. 
The auspicious appearance of the book 

caused it to attract the attention of the 
leading English journals. The London 
Times devoted a leader to it. The Satur- 
day Review was, as usual, caustic; the 
Academy displayed much ignorance, and 
spoke of the author as a Frenchman, not 
knowing, of course, that my ancestor 
came to America before the American 
Revolution. The Athenaeum, the Specta- 
tor, and other English journals published 
articles, but it was reserved for Black- 
"u'ood's to devote nineteen pages to it, 
under the title of "An American Prin- 

These confessions of mine are perfectly 
frank, and are intended to be useful. My 
literary life has been neither a brilliant 
success nor a disheartening failure. I 
have written successful books, but they 
were not so profitable as writing for 
magazines and periodicals generally. I 
have kept a careful record of every dollar 
received from my literary and journalistic 
work. From this record, the following 
quotations may prove interesting and in- 
structive : 

*The Baltimore Bonapartes," Scrtb- 

ner's Monthly $80.00 

"The Calvert Family," Lippincott's 

Magazine 31.00 

"The City of the Sultan," The Chau- 

tauquan 30.OO 

"Foe, Real and Reputed/' Godey's 

Magazine 25.00 

"American Biography." Appleton's 

Cyclopedia of Amer. Biog 85.00 

"American Biography," Amer. Supt. 

Encyclopedia Britannica 140.OO 

"Lady \Iary Wortley Montagu," /n- 

ternational Revieiv 70.00 

"Some Richmond Portraits," Harper's 

Magazine 150.00 

"The Social Athens of America," Har- 

per's Magazine 125.00 

"The American Graces," Harper's 

Magazine 60.00 

"European Correspondence," Literary 

World, etc 200.00 

"The American Bonaparte," Interna- 
tional Review 60.00 

"Madame Bonaparte's Letters from 

Europe." Scribner's Monthly 150.00 

Recent Biography, North American 

Revieiv 40.00 

Articles about Europe, etc., New York 

Mail and Express 115.00 

"Court of Appeals of Maryland." the 

Green Bag 100.00 

"The Literary Salons of London," The 

Chautauguan 100.00 

"Jefferson Davis Speaks," New York 

Sun 150.00 

Letters to the Washington Capital 190.00 

"Unveiling of the Lee Statue," Phila- 
delphia Press, Memphis Appeal, etc. . 350O 



"Third Plenary Council of Baltimore," 
New York, Philadelphia, and Chi- 
cago Times $66.00 

"The Cabinet, ihe Senate, the House, 

and Supreme Court," Chautauquan . . 120.00 
"Poc's Female Friends," The Cbautau- 

</»<"' 30.00 

"Colonial Dames," league 40.00 

"Baltimore Beauty— Past and Present," 

Vogue 40.00 

"Loves of Edgar A. Poe," Godey's 

Magazine 25.00 

"Baltimore and Baltimoreans, Past and 

Present," Baltimore News 200.00 

"In the Footsteps of Lord Byron," 

AtuHsey's Magazine 35.00 

"Groups of Eminent Women, French, 
English, and American," Chautau- 
quan ?S.oo 

"'] he CarroUs of Carrolkon," Mun- 

sey's Magazine 50.00 

"Reminiscences of Chief Justice Chase," 

Youth's Companion 35.00 

"Personal Recollections of Poc, by 
Witnesses of His Life," Saturday 

Evening Post 50.00 

"Semi- Centennial of Poe's Death," Bal- 
timore American. Philadelphia Times, 

etc 35.00 

"Centennial of the Death of Washing- 
Ion," Saint Louis Globe-Democrat, 

Washinpon Post, etc 42.00 

"The American Bonapartes," The Cos- 
mopolitan 70.00 

"The Vacant Room," Baltimore Home 

Journal 25.00 

These items are taken at random from 
a record which I have kept from the time 
that I first received pay for an article to 
the last. No article is mentioned for 
which the compensation was not, at least, 
$25. Hundreds of articles, for which 
sums ranging from $5 up, were received. 

helped to swell the aggregate amount to 
something less, in round numbers, than 
$10,000. This is a pretty good showing 
for a man the time of whose actual liter- 
ary work does not represent ten years. 

Looking back to the time when with all 
the enthusiasm of youth, I set out to con- 
quer the world with my pen, I am now 
perfectly conscious how poorly equipped 
I was for the glorious work. I left col- 
lege with my head stuffed with ancient 
learning — I had read t)vid, Caesar, and 
other classical authors, but not a line of 
Shakespeare, Milton, Addison, Johnson, 
Goldsmith, Byron, Dickens, Thackeray, 
Poe, Hawthorne, Irving, Longfellow, 
Tennyson. I soon discovered that my 
"quaint and curious" college lore was 
just as available in the American literary 
market as a handful of old Roman and 
Greek coins would be available in the 
meat and vegetable market. I found it 
was necessary to begin my education all 
over— necessary to change my antique 
coins for the pure gold of English litera- 
ture. I devoted three years to the study 
of the best English literature. I avoided 
all so-called literary clubs, and other mu- 
tual admiration societies, where "beauti- 
ful" essays and "lovely" verses are read 
for the delectation of a select audience of 
admiring friends. 

Thus prepared, I began my literary ap- 
prenticeship of which these Confessions 
tell the history. 

Eugene L. Didier. 



When Poesie was in its prime ! 

How lonj^ the years that intervene 
Since Thibault sought for *'Blanche" a rhyme, 

Or Constance of ProvenQe was queen! 
Then, birds of song their pknnes would preen 

I^^or roses, kisses, tete-a-tetes — 
Alas, 'tis all too plainly seen 

Our poets write for syndicates! 


I low pleasant to recall the time 

When Marguerite, while still dauphine, 
(lave to Chartier that seal sublime 

Nor lost one whit of modest mien : 
Ah, those were days when bays were green, 

When Troubadours implored the Fates — 
Now, on a patent verse-machine 

Our ix)ets write for syndicates! 


Oh, happy days of chant and chime, 

Those Mav-davs *neath a skv serene, 
When i)oets thronged that sunny clime 

The (lolden \'iolets to glean! 
Across the harp and lute they'd lean 

And sing to lords and magistrates — 
That was in century thirteen ! 

Our poets write for syndicates! 

L! Envoi. 

Prince! Pardon this display of spleen, 

Likewise the sophistry that prates. 
Then offers to a magazine 

**Our Poets write for syndicates!" 

Clarence Urmw 

•^^1,-^ :-^^:^y*^ >^^^iW>*?'. '^ "?!'*> *V • 



IT is only necessary to read the open- 
ing lines of David Grieve, Robert 
Elsmere, Marcella, or Helbeck of 
Bannisdale to realise something of 
the solicitude with which an author may 
approach the task of providing a soil pre- 
eminently fit for the development of seeds 
of character. In the case of Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward solicitude merges into rever- 
ence; a reverence which never tires. In 
subsequent pages the soil is deliberately 
and skilfully tended, the germs are fos- 
tered and at the conclusion of the work a 
wonderful ripening has crowned the re- 
sultant growth. 

The places which Mrs. Ward has se- 
lected in England as a fitting background 
to her more striking figures fall naturally 
into two chief and two minor divisions. 

First in importance and in extent of 
area comes the Westmoreland district. 
Bounded, roughly, by Ullswater on the 
north ; on the west by Rydal, Ambleside, 
and Cartmel Fell ; on the east by Hawes 
Water and Long Sleddale, and running 
south through Kendal to Sizergh Hall 
and Levens, is an elongated tract of coun- 
try in which are placed the scenes of 
'^obert Elsmere, Helbeck of Bannisdale, 
and the concluding portion of David 
Grieve. But the real David Grieve coun- 
trv is that "inaccessible district which 
marks the mountainous centre of mid- 
England — ^the district of Kinder Scout 
and the High Peak,'' where all around 
stretches "the home of heather and plash- 
ing water, of grouse and peewit, of cloud 
and breeze." 

Continuing a line drawn between Ulls- 
water and Kinder Scout athwart the map 
of England, it will cut through two 
places of interest in connection with 
Marcella and Robert Elsmere, viz., 
Hampden House, Great Hampden, Buck- 
inghamshire, the chief original of Mellor 
Park, and its surroundings ; and, further 
south, the district of Godalming, Milford, 
and Peper Harow, that "strange mixture 
of suburbanism and the desert" which is 
the Murewell of the Elsmere's Surrey. 

In mentioning with these the Crewe dis- 
trict of Sir George Tressady, the Man- 
chester of David Grieve's youth and ma- 
turity, the London of Julie Le Breton, of 
Marcella, and of Elsmere, the Oxford of 
Edward Langham and the Cambridge of 
the Friedlands, almost the final name has 
been placed upon the list of localities in 
England, and it is necessary to turn to 
the Continent in order not to lose sight of 
the wondrous Italy of Eleanor, the Lake 
of Como episode in Lady Rose*s Daugh- 
ter, and the "storm and stress" period of 
David's Fontainebleau. 

The Westmoreland district may be sub- 
divided into three, for it comprises cen- 
tres in accordance with the books which 
treat of its scenery. Long Sleddale is 
the Long Whindale of Robert Elsmere, 
and near the head of the vale, where the 
outline of the steepening hills is broken 
and deflected by rocks and patches of 
plantation, is situated Burwood Farm, 
"the lonely house in the lonely valley" 
where Catherine Leyburn watched over 
her mother, brought up her sisters, and 
herself became "a sort of Deborah" of 
the Westmoreland Dales. Within sight 
of Burwood is the Vicarage of Long 
Whindale, the home at this time of Mr. 
Thornburgh, an incumbent of a later 
school than that of the period when "Ef 
ye'll nobbut send us a gude schulemeaster 
a verra* moderate parson 'ull dea!" was 
a characteristic Westmoreland saying. 
To this vicarage came Robert Elsmere, 
impelled by recent illness to visit his col- 
league and cousin, and destined to fall 
into the match-making hands of Mrs. 
Thornburgh in spite of the incredulous 
remark, "a saint, a beauty, and a wit all 
to yourselves in these wilds!" with which 
he received her eulogies concerning the 
Ley burns. 

The wooing of Catherine ran a vary- 
ing course among the bare tracts and 
lonely crags of the fells of this north 
country, accelerated by the rain-driven 
walk from Shanmoor, where Elsmere 
had discovered "enchanted soil" in the 

. The Menniid'i Pool—" Di»id Grieve." j. The Doam&U—" Divid Grieve." 

I. The Moorlind Brook — ■' Dirid Griete," 4. The Fairbcook Clougb — " Dirid Grieve." 

J. Torre Ambn — "EIcumt," 



black purple of the ridge upon ridge of 
mountains stretching to Wetherlam, the 
Pikes and Fairfield; retarded by Cathe- 
rine's struggle between duty and inclina- 
tion which look place at the foot of the 
gnarled and solitary thorn, her favourite 
spot, where she sank down, a lonely girl 
figure in blue cloak and hood, to wrestle 
with the memory of her father's trust ; 
and finally — a strange sequel to the weird 
story of the ghost or '"bogie" of Deep 
Crag, the cause of Mary Backhouse's the 
carrier's daughter, "madness of de- 

Murewell (Peper Harow) to acquaint 
Catherine with the change in his religious 

When planning Daiid Grieve, \rrs. 
Humphry Ward stayed for a time at 
"Marriott's Farm," in the Peak District. 
The typical farmhouses of the neighbour- 
hood no doubt suggested Needham's 
Farm, where David and Louie Grieve 
s]>cnt their childhood in the charge of 
their Aunt Hannah and her husband 
Reuben, a none too happily-chosen guard- 
ianship, since the former's temper was 


spair," and the occasion of Catherine's 
frequent visits to the old farmhouse at 
High Ghyll, where the girl lay dying — 
finally to culminate during that stormy 
night ramble with Elsmere up the Dlea- 
cliff Tarn road which closes the West- 
moreland portion of Robert Elsmcrc. 

The scene changes to Surrey, and the 
acqaintanceship is commenced with 
Squire Wendover and his sister Mrs. 
Darcy, leading to that terrible fight for 
truth actually won by F.lsmere on a 
memorable walk across Ryle Common, 
which lies close to Rodborough Common 
and the Portsmouth Road, on his way to 

rHE rHii.[>RKS or the hettlement. 

of the "brooding and grasping order," 
and the latter's dishevelled and disjointed 
appearance had earned for him the neigh- 
bours' description of "as slamp an' wob- 
bly as an owd corn-lmggart," Yet there 
was compensation to David for his aunt's 
harsh nagging and his sister's irritating 
perversity ("It was the tragedy of 
Louie Grieve's fate, whelher as child or 
woman, that she was not made to be 
loved") in the. charm of the wild and 
rugged country round Kinder Scout, that 
western rampart of the Peak, piled 
"edge" behind "edge," the very centre of 
the great sweep of moors cleft by the 


"white and surging mass of water" called 
the Downfall, which fell straight over the 
edge here some two thousand feet above 
the sea, and roared downward along an 
almost precipitous bed into the Kinder 

David's special place of refuge in times 
of trouble was "T' owd smithy," the "en- 
chanted ground" of his childhood, a 
ruined building half-way up the moun- 
tain side, where in days far remote the 
millstones of the district had been fash- 
ioned, two or three of these huge stones 

at this early period than the kindly inter- 
est of Mr. Ancrum. was the friendship 
of "owd 'Lias Dawson," the queer 
dreamer who fifteen years earlier had 
been the schoolmaster of Frimley Moor 
End, and was held in local esteem as "t' 
cliverest mon abeawt t' Peak." It was 
Dawson who first excited the children's 
keen interest in Jenny Crum's Pool, 
gleaming "far away beyond the Down- 
fall on a projecting spur of the moor," 
which caused David to search an old 
paper-covered guide to the Peak for in- 

whli^h It HprBJifff preastd round th« vUla. {nvdd«d it 
corn»a4 flowemg I uterne."—-' Eleanor." 

Still reposing uselessly, half buried in the 
heather. Here also, in a corner formed 
by the wails of the building, stood David's 
large iron pan, dragged thither by him- 
self and the farm-donkey one never-to- 
be-forgotten day, and filled to the brim 
with water, where "on rare occasions" he 
sailed the fleet of tiny boats constructed 
by the help of his friend Mr. Ancrum, 
the lame minister of Clough End, and 
usually hidden jealously in a crevice. An- 
other resource was his miniature water- 
wheel which turned merrily in the Red 
Brook, a westerly affluent of the Down- 
fail Stream. Yet more grateful to David 

i>i- ■■ T..rri .\;(iim i.'^ [!;c Torre Amiata of Ihc book. 
the Henaissancf. with its long Hal roofs, its fine 
ollve'-Kardens,' crept up lo its vpr"wolR Mcan- 

formation concerning the "English 
Hamadryad." He learnt that she "lives 
in the side of the Scout ; that she comes to 
bathe every day in the Mermaid's Well, 
and that the man who has the good luck 
to behold her bathing will become im- 
mortal and never die." This resulted in 
tile children stealing away from the farm 
on Easter Eve. Louie's thin girlish fig- 
ure clad in a "skimp cotton dress and red 
crossover, her long legs cased in bine 
worsted stockings," as she and David fled 
"in an ecstasy of freedom," leaping 
"through the elastic carpet of heather and 
bilberry and across bogs which showed 

I , H.iii'ugh F^rm. Codilmlng, whrie " Robert Eltmcn " wit wrilt<:n. 
1. The VallcvofthrKlndcrBmok— "DjvidGricvr/' 3. The Villey oF Long Whendile—" RdbtiT F.Umm.' 
4. ThePcalMonCounirj— "Hdb«kofBinni«di1e." j. The farm where Miry BickhouKDkd— "Robot £1 

. Uveni HiU— " Hclbcck of BmnndaW." 3. The ^llh Birbcrini uherc '■ F.lrinor" «v begun. 

. CirtJnd Fell Chapel— " Htlbeck of Binn'udik." 4. The Oik Foowl, Torre AlliiM».—"Eleinor," 

5. The Vi%afthe P«glii.— "Eleuor." 



like veins of vivid green on the dark sur- 
face of the moor," up to 'the shoulder of 
the Scout, where "gleaming under the 
level light" lay the wondrous Mermaid's 
Pool. The rough and lonely road from 
the High Kinder Valley runs past the 
foundry and the printing works to 
Clough End, where David listened in 
Simes's shed to the pleading of the mill- 
hand preacher. The practice of attend- 
ing prayer-meetings grew upon him, to 

A very different picture is this David, 
the youthful and dreamy rustic in "his 
worn fustian suit and red Tarn o' Shanter 
cap," from that of the successful but sad- 
dened David, come to manhood but no 
less dreamy, who tends his dying wife 
with loving watchfulness in the charming 
Westmoreland cottage near Pelter 
Bridge, Rydal, within sight of Nab Scar, 
Loughrigg, and the larch plantations on 
the side of Silver How, 


Lucr Poster was s 


now ther « 

□ follow 

the high rldire Bb( 


a sKttBrcd 
ugliB and bio 



ling pently Klory, 

end disastrously in a flogging from Jim 
Wigson perpetrated at a public-house on 
the road between Castleton and Clough 
End, which confirmed David's opinion 
that "religion was not for such as he," 
and became an important factor in the 
considerations which induced him, on a 
day of piteous upheaval, to set off run- 
ning down the Glossop Road past the 
Snake Inn on his way to Manchester to 
carve out a path to fortune on his own 

ik lake, toward NemI o 
rock, kieh over the lal 
proud w^ite of her in' 
StretqhfnK between Iti 

dged wooda climbed to 

It is indeed a far cry from this peaceful 
scenery of Ambleside to the richness of 
Eleanor's Italy. 

"Olive-grounds and vineyards, plough- 
lands and pine plantations sank, slope 
after slope, fold after fold, to the Cam- 
pagna. And beyond the Campagna, 
along the whole shining line of the west, 
the sea met the sunset ; while to the 
north, a dim and scattered whiteness ris- 
ing from the plain — was Rome." 

On this scene Mrs. Humphry Ward 


grazed from the Villa Barberini, Castel 
Gandoifo, where she began lo write 
Eleanor, and in the dedication to the book 
lies more than a suggestion to the strong 
affection she retains for it. This, too, is 
the scene upon which Edward Manisty 
looked down from the terrace of the old 
Villa on the Alban Hills, the villa with 
its garden of ilex-avenues, its salon all 
splendour — a wealth of pictures, fine 
hangings and luxurious carpets — and its 
sparsely-furnished dining-room in marked 
contrast, described by Eleanor as that 
odious room "which Edward will have 
left in its sins." 

It was at Nemi, situated on the edge of 
the deep-sunk lake, with its Orsini tower 
and its Temple site, called by the people 
the "Giardino del Lago," that Lucy Fos- 
ter was stoned by rough peasants whilst 
Eleanor and Manisty were visiting the 
Egeria Spring, an episode which resulted 
in Lucy's strange ride back to the Villa 
with Manisty beside her, along the lonely 
path that was all silence and woody fra- 
grance, through a "world of opal colour 
arched by skies of pale green, melting 
into rose above and daffodil gold below." 
Later we find Manisty pacing the dim 
grass walks among the olives in the 
padere, whilst Eleanor flings from her 
window into the trees, the tcrra-cotta 
figure he had given her at Nemi. 

With the flight of Eleanor and Lucy 
from the Villa the scene is removed to 
the valley of the Paglia, beyond Orvielo, 
a district of vast oak woods, almost Eng- 
lish in its verdure, where stands in im- 
posing grandeur the Castle of Torre .\\- 
fina, the Torre Amiata of the book, new- 
built on the site of an old Sforza Palazzo. 
Here Mrs. Ward stayed, becoming so in- 
spired by the beauty of the surrounding 
"Sassetto" that she utilised it as the back- 
ground for the last chapters of fJeaiior, 
and in the very heart of its fastnesses de- 
livered the still half-unwilling Lucy into 
Manisty's safe keeping. 

To return to Westmoreland, it is in- 
teresting to know that the idea of Hcl- 
beck of Bannisdalc was suggested to 
Mrs. Ward by the history of the old 
Catholic family of the Stricklands who 
have been settle<l for many generations 
at Sizergh, near Kendal. During one 
long day of travel from North to South, 
the whole story shaped itself clearly in 
her mind. Bannisdale is not to be identi- 
fied with the district of that name lying 
to the north of Long Sleddale. It is a 
combination of Levens Hall and Sizergh 
Hall, and the river Kent is doubtless 
mirrored in the tumbling river Greet with 
the roar of its "flood- voice," so dear to 
Alan Helbcck. The book depicts vividly 
the peat moss country round Kendal and 
Arnside, marked here and there by barely 
distinguishable lines of weather-beaten 
trees, "or by more solid dots of black 
which the eye of the inhabitant knew to 
be peat stacks." Reyond are level streaks 
of greyish white, where the Greet loops 
with the Kent, flowing onward to the 
estuary and the sea. Across the former 
river is the bridge where Laura played 
the ghost after her stolen interview with 
Hubert Mason, an incident which led to 
awkward explanations with the Master of 
Bannisdale, and practically opened that 
terrible battle between love and truth 
which ended in Laura's tracric death, 
forcing her. "step by step, to this last bit- 
ter resource — this awful spending of her 
young life — this blind witness to aufjust 
things!" The quiet "little chapel high in 
the hills," where Laura was buried in the 
country .flie Inved so well, which holds 
her so tenderlv an<l gives her of its love- 
liest and its best, is at Cartmel Fell, and 
with this j>eaccfid scene we reach perhaps 
the most artistic conclusion to anything 
that Mrs. Humphry Wanl has written, 
and a fitting finish to a oirsory survey of 
some of the charming spots of scenery 
she has brought so near. F. Hamcl. 


Elf and fairy may be seen 
In the woods at Halloween; 
Fay" and goblin, witch and sprite, 
cAU come out to dance that night 

cAnd the Black Cat prowls 
cAnd groTvls and yowls; 
cAnd her eyeballs glare 
With a mystic stare, 

o4s she joins the rollicking witches' ring, 
cAnd round the fire they dance and sing. 

Carolyn Wells. 




IN selecting Parsifal as the piece de 
resistance of his coming opera 
season, Herr Conried has shown 
himself an astute impresario. 
Whatever the outcome financially and 
whatever the actual popular success of 
the venture, the fact is indisputable that 
never in the history of opera in New 
York has the promise of a novelty ex- 
cited so much interest and discussion in 
the musical community. Indeed, it may 
well be questioned whether the particu- 
lar work over which such a heated con- 
troversy has been waged is worthy of 
all the pother. A critical consideration 
of its merits had best await its presenta- 
tion. But it may be intimated that Wag- 
nerites differ among themselves as to 
the comparative value of Parsifal. Some 
hold it Wagner's masterpiece; but these 
are few and count in their number those 
persons who always argue that the latest 
effort of genius is the best. The major- 
ity are agreed that while Parsifal ex- 
hibits Wagner's leit-motiven system in 
its fullest flowering, musically it is 
weaker than Die Meistersinger and Tris- 

There is something attractive in the 
picture of the great composer, after fight- 
ing a battle for recognition such as the 
world of art had never seen, sitting down 
in his last years to write a religious 
drama whose motto is peace and good 
will towards all men. He commenced 
the poem in 1877, finishing it, as was 
his habit of work, before he took up the 
musical setting. The drama had its first 
performance at Bayreuth in the festival 
year of 1882. Since that time, protected 
by copyright, Parsifal performances have 
been confined to the little German village 
consecrated to Wagner traditions. Other 
cities have heard a good part of the music 
in concert form, but the first stage rep- 
resentation outside of Bayreuth will be 

* Wagner's Parsifal, as retold by Oliver 
Huckel. Thomas Y. Crowell & Company, 
New York. Net, $0.75. 

g^ven at the Metropolitan Opera House 
during Herr Conried's present regime. 

The Grail legends, like the Nibelun- 
gen, have their roots back in the shadowy 
times of which history makes scant rec- 
ord. Like the Nibelungen myths, they 
were the property of many nations. 
Norse Sagas, Saxon Chronicles, and 
Teutonic Archives contain versions of 
the Grail story. Wagner was drawn 
towards it early in his musical career; 
and in Lohengrin he introduces a bit of 
the poetry and mystery surrounding 
Montsalvat and its sacred treasure. In 
Parsifal, as was his wont, Wagner took 
freely of the different existing versions 
of the story. Wolfram von Eschenbach's 
poem is the main source ; but he departed 
widely from Wolfram when he found 
material for his purpose elsewhere. 

Wagner was first and foremost a dra- 
matist. Music he subordinated to the 
dramatic or rather theatric idea, and 
poetry, too, he treated as its handmaid. 
This must be clearly comprehended for 
the true appreciation of Wagner's works. 
Wagner himself always insisted that his 
music taken out of the theatre lost some 
of its essentials. And to any thoughtful 
person the truth of this must be plain. 
A great deal of the music is so inti- 
mately connected with the action that its 
significance is almost wholly lost when 
it is divorced from the latter; and more 
than that^ it loses infinitely as music. 
Other great composers have written dra- 
matic music. What Wagner wrote is 
musical drama. All this has a particular 
application to Parsifal. In none of Wag- 
ner's operas is there less music which 
extracted from the stage surroundings 
is found to be of interest in and for it- 
self. In none of his operas is the stage 
effect so important. In none of thorn is 
atmosphere in the abstract so essential. 
It is this fact which lends the greatest 
force to the contentions of the proprie- 
tress of Bayreuth and her adherents, that 
Parsifal of all the operas should be 
shielded from indiscriminate perform- 
ance and kept where a reverent treatment 
will be assured. Ethical and sentimental 
considerations have been injected into 



the discussion which has thus assumed 
large proportions; and finally an appeal 
to the courts is threatened. But the pros 
and cons of the controversy need not de- 
tain us here. 

To English readers, naturally enough, 
the Grail legend as told by Tennyson is 
made the basis for judging all other ver- 
sions. Parsifal is there Sir Galahad, in 
outward form and bearing closely re- 
sembling Wagner's hero. But the story 
as told by Wolfram von Eschenbach 
contains much symbolism and mysticism 
that is absent in Tennyson and the Eng- 
lish Chronicles of Malory and the others 
in whom he found the sources of his 
poem. Wagner in true Teutonic fashion 
has seized upon these elements of the 
Wolfram poem and transfusing them in 
the fire of his 9wn fancy has combined 
them afresh, giving them a prominence 
that completely alters the dramatic values 
of the poem. ,The simple directness of 
Wolfram's philosophy is transmuted into 
the complicated woof of a Schopen- 
hauer's system of thought. It is difficult 
for those of us who are not Germans 
thoroughly to appreciate all the symbol- 
ism of Parsifal — wH&t the true Wagner- 
ite terms its philosophy. And perhaps 
we do not lose much. Recall Matthew 
Arnold's remarks about the insistence of 
Wordsworthians on the poet's philoso- 
phy. "His poetry," says Arnold, "is the 
reality; his philosophy, so far, at least, 
as it may put on the form and habit of a 
'scientific system of thought,* and the 
more that it puts them on — is the illu- 
sion." Certain of George Eliot's ad- 
mirers, who have attempted to create out 
of her writings a complete system of phi- 
losophy, are subject to this illusion also. 
Have the Wagnerites escaped it? 

But turning to the particular subject 
in hand, Mr. Huckel's version of Wag- 
ner's libretto, the reader is at once struck 
with the futilitv of its measure. We 
doubt if Wagner could have written 
blank verse of a sustained quality. He 
certainly has not inspired his translator 
to do it. Wagner's alliterative verse, 
in keeping with the general dramatic and 
musical purpose of his dramas, is all well 
enough ; but stripped of its characteristic 
dress, his poetry loses vastly. The truth 
of this is plainly demonstrated by Mr. 
Huckel's experiment. For he has fol- 
lowed closely the original, using all the 

thought expressed in words by Wagner 
and adding introductory and explanatory 
passages which are the equivalent of the 
stage and scenic directions in the libretto. 
As he himself explains his effort, he has 
"retold in the spirit of the Bayreuth in- 
terpretation" Wagner's Parsifal. In his 
prefatory remarks, Mr. Huckel likens 
his work to Fitzgerald's Omar Khayyam 
— a bold analogy, rather. 

But if this translation is not poetry of 
a high order it nevertheless has merit. 
It conveys to the reader a good under- 
standing of Wagner's drama. That is to 
say, he can follow intelligently the stage 
performance, although given in a strange 
tongue. There is a timeliness in the pub- 
lication that would make one think it a 
book written for the occasion, were it 
not for the author's assertion that it was 
planned ten years ago and completed in 
1902. There is also the internal evidence 
of care in its preparation. Mr. Huckel 
has withstood the temptation to use 
archaisms and other affectations. He 
has written clear, straightforward Eng- 
lish ; consequently his work is a decided 
improvement over the translation that 
accompanies the vocal score, with its 
necessarily marked limitations. 

The little volume has been made with 
taste and the typography is an excellent 
sample of the work of the Merrymount 
Press. There are five illustrations from 
paintings by Franz Stassen, that heighten 
its artistic value. 

Lewis M. Isaacs, 



NINETEEN years ago, when 
Charles Reade's novel A Peril- 
ous Secret, was appearing post- 
humously in the Temple Bar 
Magazine, Mr. John Coleman contributed 
to the pages of that periodical several 
chapters, entitled "Personal Reminis- 
cences of Charles Reade Extending Over 
Twenty Years." Although Mr. Coleman 
omits to mention the fact in his Fore- 
zvords, his new volume, Charles Reade as 
I Knew Him, is based upon these earlier 
articles, and, indeed, is little more than an 
elaborated and detailed version of them. 
What interest the articles had in their 
original form has suffered in the process 
of expansion. This thick, handsome vol- 



ume is a little book in great space. Had 
it been half the length it would have been 
twice as valuable. 

A book more tantalising than Charles 
Reade as I Knew Him is not often pro- 
duced. It is written throughout in the 
first person, and, as much of it is dia- 
logue, it is often difficult, and sometimes 
well-nigh impossible, to know whether a 
statement emanates from Reade or Mr. 
Coleman. The arrangement of the book 
adds to the reader*s bewilderment. It 
opens with a "Prologue — Thirty-five 
Years Ago," descriptive of the first meet- 
ing of Reade and Mr. Coleman in the 
former's house in Bolton Row. Then 
comes "A Retrospect of Half a Century,'* 
related by Reade to the chronicler; and 
this is followed by the "Random Recollec- 
tions of Twenty Years" of Mr. Coleman. 
The volume, indeed, is more than a biog- 
raphy of Reade; it is also an autobiog- 
raphy of the biographer. To a certain 
extent this adds to the interest ; but, to a 
far greater degree, it makes confusion 
worse confounded. 

Much that Mr. Coleman has to say is 
valuable, but to find these passages is like 
seeking a needle in a bundle of hay. Mr. 
Coleman lacks the gift of compression — 
that first essential of the biographer — 
and he has not the slightest idea of selec- 
tion. For example, he is at great pains to 
make clear the true history of the com- 
position of "Masks and Faces"; but in- 
stead of a straightforward connected 
statement based on the authorities he has 
collected, he gives the authorities — 
Reade's own account, and Arnold Tay- 
lor's (the brother of Tom Taylor, Reade's 
collaborateur in this play), and an ex- 
tract from The Bancrofts On and Off the 
Stage — and leaves the reader to weigh the 
evidence and to draw his own conclu- 
sions. Nothing could be more fair, of 
course ; but when this sort of thing occurs 
more than once, one is apt to regard the 
book as little more than material for a 

Mr. Coleman, as actor and theatrical 
manager, naturally enough, is interested 
in Reade's contributions to the stage, and 
his reminiscences are almost exclusively 
concerned with the author as playwright. 
Yet a book about Charles Reade, which 
practically ignores his novels, and has but 
one or two passing references to The 
Cloister and the Hearth, may at least 

claim to rank as a curiosity of literature. 
It is Hamlet with the part of the Prince 
of Denmark left out. It is, however, due 
to Mr. Coleman to mention that he states 
in his prefatory note that the reader who 
expects an erudite disquisition on Reade's 
literary achievements is doomed to dis- 
appointment. But there is a vast diflFer- 
ence between erudite disquisition and 
neglect. When dealing with Reade's 
plays, moreover, he ventures on dogmatic 
utterances, which even the most daring 
critic would hesitate to deliver. Masks 
and Faces, he says, has "become a classic, 
doubtless destined to endure so long as 
the language in which it is written ex- 
ists." What, then, is left to remark of 
Tzco Loves and a Life, which Mr. Cole- 
man declares is "the best, the very best 
play ever written by Taylor and Reade" ? 
Reade either adapted, translated, or 
(nearly always) wrote in collaboration no 
less than thirty-five plays, of which twen- 
ty-five have been staged. Of these, Nance 
OldHeld, a version of Tiradate; Drink, an 
adaptation of L'Assommoir; and Masks 
and Faces, written with Tom Taylor, still 
hold the boards to-day. Drink is a hor- 
rible, realistic drama, without any artistic 
signification; but Nance Oldfield is de- 
lightful, and Masks and Faces is a charm- 
ing comedy. Yet it is doing Reade's 
reputation ill-service to speak of him as a 
great dramatist. Though the theatre al- 
ways attracted him, and he devoted to 
play-writing much of his time, he never 
mastered its technique, and he has not 
enriched the literature of the drama with 
a single piece written by himself. 

Mr. Coleman throws an interesting 
light on the condition of the English 
stage fifty years ago. Prices for dramatic 
works had ruled high in Garrick's time, 
when Johnson received £.^15 for the six- 
nights' run of Irene, Goldsmith £900 for 
She Stoops to Conquer, and the now for- 
gotten Holcroft obtained £900 for The 
Follies of a Night, a translation of Beau- 
marchais's Figaro. Then the pecuniary 
value of plays, at least so far as the au- 
thor was concerned, steadily decreased. 
Lytton, one of the most popular writers 
of his day, received only two hundred 
guineas for The Lady of Lyons; Tom 
Taylor was given but £150 for The 
Ticket-of'Leave Man, while Taylor and 
Reade between them were paid £100 for 
Two Lives and a Love, and £150 for 



Masks and Faces. It remained for Dion 
Boucicault to inaugurate the royalty sys- 
tem, which has resulted in making inde- 
pendent for life the writer of a successful 
play. The temporary fall in prices may, 
perhaps, be traced to the fact that most 
dramatic authors of that day "conveyed" 
pieces from the French, without remu- 
nerating the owner, or even acknowledg- 
ing their indebtedness. In this respect 
Reade was a notorious offender. He was 
present at the first performance of Scribe 
and Lagouve's Bat ail le des Dames, and 
was delighted with the comedy. "No 
British brigands were present, so it oc- 
curred to me to play the brigand my- 
self," he said ; and he obtained a copy of 
the play, and returned to London, when 
he immediately set to work on the adapta- 
tion. He never even thought to pay the 
authors, or to ask their permission. Cir- 
cumstances alter cases, and Reade saw 
this matter in a different light when un- 
authorised dramatisations of // is Never 
too Late to Mend were staged. Then it 
was "pirates," "plunderers," "nefarious 
transactions," and lawsuits. 

It is not as a dramatist, but as a nov- 
elist, that Readers name will be handed 
down to posterity. Yet of the seventeen 
stories he wrote, only about half-a-dozen 
are read or even remembered to-day, and 
most of these will sooner or later be for- 
gotten. But The Cloister and the Hearth 
is immortal. 

Peg Woflington, which is Masks and 
Faces turned into a novel, shows on every 
page its dramatic origin, and the air of 
exaggeration which pervades it, though 
acceptable on the stage, where everything 
requires to be emphasised, takes from it 
most of the daintiness that should be its 
principal quality. Christie Johnston is 
far better in every way. The story is 
slight to a degree, but the life of the New- 
haven fisherfolk is drawn with the hand 
of a master. The humour is often forced 
and boisterous, the humour of the play- 
wright anxious to create laughter at any 
cost ; but some of the characters are real 
flesh and blood. Christie — lion-hearted 
girl! — lives in these pages, and the nar- 
row-minded Mrs. Gatty and her snobbish, 
ungrateful son Charles. The whole is 
admirable, but there is one scene in the 
book so magnificent that once read it can 
never be forgotten. It is when Lord 
Ipsden visits old Jess Rutherford, and she 

pours out her troubles to him. "My 
troubles, laddie? The sun wad set, and 
rise, and set again, ere I could tell ye a' 
the trouble I hae come through. . . . 
Oh! ye needna vex yourself for an auld 
wife's tears; tears are a blessin', lad, I 
shall assure ye. Mony*s the time I hae 
prayed for them, and couldna hae them. 
Sit ye doon ! sit ye doon ! Til no let ye 
gang fra my door till I hae thankit ye 
— but gie me time, gie me time. I canna 
greet al' the days of the week." Then she 
thanks him for his charity and blesses 
him as one who has the power and the 
right to bless or curse. The words roll 
forth, eloquent and musical, from this old 
peasant woman as from some grand old 
Hebrew prophet. A thousand good 
wishes she utters, until at the end she 
eclipses herself: "An' oh, my boenny, 
boenny lad, may ye be wi' the rich upon 
the airth a' your days — and ztn the puir 
in the world to come!'* There is nothing 
finer in literature than this scene, nothing 
more noble or more pathetic. It is the 
high-water mark of Readers genius, and 
Reade at his best has been excelled by 

// is Never too Late to Mend was writ- 
ten to expose the cruelty of the prison 
system then in vogue. This book, per- 
haps the most popular of all Readers writ- 
ings, has no claim to be regarded as lit- 
erature. The author was carried away 
by his feelings when he was writing this 
horrible narrative, but while that is suf- 
ficient excuse for the man, it cannot be 
held to exculpate the artist. Hard Cash 
and Foul Play were also novels written 
with a purpose : the former to expose the 
opportunities for fraud so long as private 
lunatic asylums were not properly super- 
vised ; the latter to show how unsea- 
worthy ships were sent to sea and delib- 
erately scuttled for the sake of the insur- 
ance money. These, with Griffith Gaunt, 
a tale with an unusually unpleasant plot, 
are the best, as well as the most widely 
known, of Readers novels. They are well 
written and admirably constructed. As 
a rule, the interest is well sustained ; the 
characters are carefullv drawn, and there 
are some delightful scenes, such as the 
island episode in Foul Play. They rank 
far above the work of the every-day writ- 
er of fiction, and could only have been 
composed by a well-informed, large- 
hearted man. Thev would have made 



the reputation of a lesser writer ; but they 
are entirely eclipsed by their author's 
masterpiece. Compared with The Cloister 
and the Hearth, all Reade's other books 
are as dross is to gold. Concerning the 
great historical romance, Mr. Coleman 
recalls an interesting fact showing how it 
was nearly strangled at birth : "When 
originally brought out [1851] under the 
name of A Good Fight in Once a Week, 
its publication was suspended in conse- 
quence of the editor's tampering with the 
'copy/ an indignity which the author re- 
sented by breaking off further relations, 
and abruptly and unsatisfactorily winding 
up the story. Ultimately, however, it 
saw the light in a complete form under 
its present well-known title.'' The editor 
of the periodical was subsequently con- 
fined in a lunatic asylum, whereupon 
Reade made one of his characteristic re- 
marks. "Poor fellah!" he said. "Poor 
fellah! I'm sorry for him. Of course, 
I'm bound to be sorry for him as a Chris- 
tian, but what else could be expected from 
a fellah who presumed to tami)er with my 


. ?" 

Leuns Mehille, 



THERE are breezes from the 
Southland, stirring the mead- 
ows of "The Blue Grass," 
moaning through the gorges of 
the mountains, and they are all abrcath 
with life in The Little Shepherd of King- 
dom Come. John Fox, Jr., has done a 
notable thing in this charming story — a 
romance in its keenly sustained interest, 
a novel in its palpitant humanity ; and, 
though the smile may rise to many lips 
at the heralding of more American his- 
torical romance, even he who smiles must 
in reason admit that his smile is, in a 
critical sense, illogical. 

The wave of popular taste for books of 
this class was, perhaps, first ruffled from 
the deep by interest in the societies of 
patriotic genealogy. It was first fed 
by romances of Colonial and Revolution- 
ary times, of varying merit and demerit, 
but, for the most part, of enthusiastic 

♦"The Little Shepherd of Kingdom 
Come." John Fox. Jr. New York: Charles 
Scribner's Sons. $1.50. 

reception, and, then, gathering volume — 
or, if you please, many volumes — it rolled 
down, a devouring billow of ink, to the 
period of the Civil War. Naturally 
enough a craving that drank so deeply 
and often, so indiscriminatingly was soon 
more than satisfied and turned at last 
with disgust from its debauch to scofF 
at all tales of the kind it had indulged in 
so intemperately. But because many 
people happen to have taken too much 
bad wine is poor reason for a taster to 
turn up his nose at the best, and, strong 
in this reflection, I am the more embold- 
ened to praise even now a story of the 
great Rebellion — a romance with Mor- 
gan and his men filling the background 
and with the inevitable Grant present 
indeed, but, be it said, most tactfully 

The story, after all, is the thing in The 
Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come, and 
you are soon absorbed in the characters 
of its fiction, their lives, their fortunes, 
their hearts — for thev have hearts with 
good red blood flowing through them — 
long before Mr. Fox begins to involve 
the spirit of the storm and to add to his 
plot the interest of national (or State) 
enthusiasm and historic passion. If any- 
thing, I am inclined to think the story 
droops a little under these influences ; not 
appreciably, perhaps, for he has used his 
reasoning very judiciously, and it is 
doubtless a necessity of his motive, the 
terrible rending of heart-strings in the 
harrowed Commonwealth, when Ken- 
tucky sent her sons to North and South 
that they might return again and tear at 
each other's throats till the homestead 
soil ran red with their blood. It is a 
strong motive, a gruesome motive, and, 
difficult as it now seems to comprehend 
such bitterness, it is the truth of history. 
Still, there are elements of weakness in 
this vial from which the author seeks to 
draw strength : elements which even his 
talent has not quite succeeded in elimi- 
nating, very probably because they can- 
not be altogether eliminated. 

When one has read a good book, well 
written, and well knit, has thrilled over 
an altogether absorbing story and felt 
with its characters, it is a somewhat un- 
gracious duty to sit down and quiet one's 
blood and consider in coldly critical wise 
just why the book is not exactly "great." 
That duty brings me again to the inher- 



ent difficulty of writing "great" fiction 
when motive and plot have birth in a his- 
tory which still stirs personal and, per- 
haps, partisan chords in the hearts of 
both author and reader. There is the 
ever-present demand upon the former for 
a fineness of taste that may be said to be 
superhuman, and which, even were it 
exercised, must affect discriminating 
readers differently ; there is the constant 
temptation to reenforce interest, pathos 
and dramatic power — yes, and salability, 
by touches that from the standpoint of 
the best canons of literary art ring un- 
true, and, when pressed too deeply by 
inartistic and sordid imitators become 
baldly meretricious. It is not, bear in 
mind, the canon that seeks to govern the 
feeling, but the feeling that has shaped 
the canon ; a rather vague sensation, if 
you please ; but whenever some hero of 
such fiction meets Washington with his 
bearing of calm majesty or the taciturn 
Grant with his inevitable cigar, surely 
we are all conscious enough of a shrink- 
ing from the fictitious words we know 
are trembling on the great man's lips, and 
the more so, be it said, with the latter 
than the former because he is nearer to 
our intelligences if not so near to our 
hearts. Often the words, when they 
come, are shallow claptrap, but even if 
they be conceived in closest character and 
most accurate taste, there is just a little 
feeling that they are of the nature of 
claptrap all the same, and the mind is 
conscious of a sense of embarrassment, 
as if some liberty were taken with the 
character of a friend. Why this is an 
offense against literary art should be as 
clear as that it is an offense against good 
taste, if we can once realize that perfect 
art implies a combination of all the fine- 
nesses of taste and feeling that bear di- 
rectly or remotely upon the artist's crea- 
tion, and that to be perfect there must be 
never so much as the suspicion of a jar- 
ring note. This matter of historical 
characters is but a phase of the question. 
The same principle will be found to ap- 
ply to a less degree in one way and to 
a greater in another, in the portrayal of 
historic incidents around which personal 
or partisan sentiments still cluster. 

And now I do not say all this to ar- 
raign the author of The Little Shepherd 
of Kingdom Come of such offenses, save, 
perhaps, in a degree that is inseparable 

from his essayal : I say it only to explain 
why I do not call this delightful story a 
**Great American Novel"; why, contrary 
to the motive of many critics, I cannot 
conceive that any American historical 
romance, writ while feelings its motive 
evoked are still alive, can ever justly re- 
ceive that much bandied mead of praise. 
Possibly it may find a realisation in some 
tale of Colonial times before the shadow 
of the Revolution aroused anti-English 
antipathies that have not yet died out ; 
perhaps the plot will be found in some 
neglected episode involving forgotten 
men and deeds and questions, but to me 
it seems that aspirants must look toward 
the- story of American life pure and 
simple, in which enters no national, po- 
litical or militant social issues. He 
whose insight, sense of truth, and power 
of expression can, without invoking the 
least of the gods, endow such a tale with 
real and living interest, he who can call 
forth tears and laughter with never the 
suspicion of an onion in his pocket or a 
sly dig at the reader's ribs; for him we 
wait in all reverence, while we gratefully 
solace the lagging hours with such pleas- 
ing, well-conceived, and well-written 
stories as The Little Shepherd of King- 
dom Come, 

DufHeld Osborne, 




TO some of us the pleasure of 
reading Mr. Jack London's The 
Call of the Wild will be marred 
by a slight feeling of regret for 
which the book itself is in no way respon- 
sible. It is a regret which comes of com- 
parison and of wondering why so much 
of the good writing being done to-day bv 
the new and promising men among 
American authors deals with the remote 
and undeveloped corners of the world, the 
hard trails through virgin forests and 
over Arctic ice and snows, and not more 
about the lives of the men and women of 
conventional habits and surroundings. For 
it is to the men and women who shall tell 
us the vital and dramatic stories of what 
superficially seems to be the commonplace 

*"The Call of the Wild." By Jack Lon- 
don. New York: The Macmillan Company. 




that we must look for the foundations of 
a sturdier and more lasting national lit- 
erature. As for The Call of the Wild, it 
may be summed up simply by saying that 
it is far and away the best book that Mr. 
Jack London has ever written. 

In this book there are much the same 
scenes and atmosphere that were found 
4^n Children of the Frost and The Sons of 
\the Wolf, You get the same "feel of the 
North," you realise the bitter sting of the 
cold and the stretch of the endless miles 
of Arctic snow. But there is lacking 
much of the vagueness which tended to 
mar the earlier books. For Buck, the son 
of the Saint Bernard and the Scotch 

\ Shepherd dog, Mr. London has invested 
with a humanity which he has failed to 
give to most of his men. Buck originally 
lived at a great house in "the sun-kissed 
Santa Clara Valley" and might have 
ended his days there comfortably, ruling 
complacently over the great demesne, had 
not men, .groping in the Arctic darkness, 
found a vellow metal. Thousands rushed 
into the Northland and heavy dogs with 
strong muscles by which to toil, and furry 
coats to protect them from the frost, were 
needed, so Buck was stolen and shipped 
away to be brutally broken and to trudge 
along pulling the sledges and to rise to 
the mastership of the pack over the body 
of his beaten foe. At the very beginning 
of his travels, smarting under the indig- 
nity of being kidnapped, wild with wrath 
at being bound by ropes and hurried 
about from place to place, Buck met the 
terrible man in the red sweater, the man 
with the club, and learned the lesson 
which he never forgot. Then there fol- 
lowed the long trip to the North, the 
record run over the snow and ice with 
Frangois and Perrault, the French- 
Canadian and the French-Canadian half- 
breed, and the terrific battle for suprem- 
acy with Spitz through which Buck won 
the mastership. Then there were other 
journeys and other frieftds, until Buck 
found the man whom he recognized as 
the real master and to whom he gave all 
the love of his strong heart. But John 
Thornton met death at the hands of the 
Yeehats, and Buck, cut off forever from 
his love of man, heard the call of the 
wild and responded to it, throwing in his 
lot with the wolves. And there ends the 
story of Buck. "The years were not many 
when the Yeehats noted a change in the 


/breed of timber-wolves; for some were 
J^seen with splashes of brown on head and 
muzzle, with a rift of white cen- 
tring down the chest. But more remark- 
able than this, the Yeehats tell of a Ghost 
Dog that runs at the head of the pack. 
They are afraid of this Ghost Dog, for it 
has cunning greater than they, stealing 
from their camps in the fierce winters, 
robbing their traps, slaying their dogs, 
and defying their bravest hunters." The , 
Call of the Wild is one of the two best ^ 
dog stories which have been written in 
this countrv in recent vears. The other, 
of course, is Mr. Richard Harding 
Davis's The Bar Sinister. Personally, 
the present reviewer prefers The Bar 

Arthur Bartlett Maurice. 




IN much of the American and Eng- 
lish fiction of the present day 
touching upon the so-called sex 
question, there is an apparent fear- 
lessness which quickly disappears before 
the voice of Public Opinion. Anne Car- 
mel belongs to this type of fiction ; so do 
The Right of Way and Lady Rose's 
Daughter. Miss Overton created a 
strong and thoroughly fearless woman in 
Anne Carmel; and after she created her 
she seemed to grow afraid of her. She 
did not dare let her go her own way. 

Anne Carmel was the onlv sister of a 
French Canadian priest, who, when the 
story opens, had been for eight years the 
cure of the parish of St. Hilaire. Anne 
and her brother are very near and dear to 
each other, but Anne is beginning to 
long for her woman's birthright. And 
Paul Tetrault did not know that this 
was at the moment when he should have 
asked Anne to marry him. He had let 
go his last chance, "but he was no more 
aware of that than are most of us at the 
moment of making the errors of omission 
which leave, forever after in our lives, 
a space that cannot be filled." 

Just at the psychological moment Anne 
meets a young Englishman, Harnett 

* "Anne Carmel." By Gwendolen Over- 
ton. New York: The Macmiilan Company. 



(whose first name is not mentioned), 
and when she met him "there was a spot 
of crimson over her heart." From the 
first she loved him, and as she looked 
into his blue, determined English eyes 
she saw things exactly as they were. 
"It was less to him to have done with 
her than to be subjected to annoyance or 
humiliation. But she was not the first 
woman knowingly to give a good love 
for a poorer one and be happy over the 
barter.'* After the first few meetings it 
was Anne who sought Harnett, not Har- 
nett who sought Anne. They met at 
midnight in a dark and gruesome quar- 
ry; and Harnett, with his English re- 
serve, took this delicate little attention as 
a matter of course. He was not in a 
position to marry, being financially de- 
pendent upon an uncle, and Anne was 
too big and fine to demand anything of 
him. Gossip is quickly spread in the 
parish by persons to whom the semblance 
of evil must be evil, and Anne*s good 
name is besmirched. Harnett goes away, 
and Anne refuses to listen to any one. 
Her mother "wears a mournful smile of 
forgiveness** whenever she comes near 
her, and in the faces of the men who ap- 
proach her she sees her degradation be- 
fore herself. After a time Harnett 
returns — married. Anne has grown 
thoroughly reckless and promises to go 
away with him. But just here Miss 
Overton steps in and takes Anne in hand. 
She reasons with her through her 
brother. Up to the present time the 
voice of religion has fallen upon wilfully 
deafened ears, but now things are dif- 
ferent. A woman has come into th^life 
of Jean Carmel, and to save him for the 
Church Anne renounces Harnett for all 
time. This is an inconsistent ending, and 
on this point we take issue with the au- 
thor. The real reason, we believe, that 
Anne Carmel did not go with Harnett 
was because his nature was not strong 
enough to dominate hers, not because of 
any higher purpose. 

The book, as a whole, shows consider- 
able power, but the narrative is broken 
by descriptions of the cure's parishioners 
who actually have little to do with the 
story. Miss Overton*s style, too, is 
clumsy at times. The figure of Anne 
Carmel herself, however, stands out 
strong, still, enduring. 

F. M. Mandeville. 



ONCE a preacher, always a 
preacher. The Rev. Thomas 
Dixon, Jr., is no less an ex- 
horter since he dropped the 
clerical prefix from his name and turned 
novelist. He can abandon the pulpit and 
write about the leopard's spots, but he 
can*t change them. His calling is fixed 
for life. So it is not surprising that his 
new book turns out more a sermon than 
a novel. It is both by turns, but the 
moral is more often to the front than is 
the truth. 

It is no derogation of the preacher to 
say that he has the defects of his virtues ; 
and one of them is that his work does 
not mix well with fiction. A preacher 
who isn*t trying to convince you of some- 
thing isn*t worth his salt ; a novelist who 
is convincing is impertinent. The man 
with a moral to enforce, if he sets out to 
write a novel, is going to show you that 
moral triumphant, liife to the contrary 
notwithstanding, instead of giving you, 
as he ought, a few real people working 
out his idea as best they can, independ- 
ently of his prejudiced guidance. The 
minute you know that Mr. Dixon dis- 
approves of socialism, and that the Rev. 
Frank Gordon, in his book, is a socialist 
(and you learn both facts before you 
have read many pages) you know that 
the fictitious clergyman is bound to come 
to a bad end. He is there to prove Mr. 
Dixon's theories right. Perhaps he 
proves them to you, in which case the 
author is justified — as a moralist. But 
if you are on your guard against an au- 
thor*s bias, it is more than likely that in 
vitiating life for the sake of a theory he 
has, for you, vitiated his conclusions. 

Socialism, in the person of the big, 
blond, oratorical, posing hero, is rampant 
in The One Woman; and socialism, with 
Mr. Dixon, means sexual license and the 
disruption of the family. Within the 
space of two pages there are quotations 
from Fourier, William Morris, Robert 
Owen, Grant Allen, and Karl Pearson 
to back this idea. The array of names is 
imposing alike to socialist and individ- 
ualist; yet the uneasy conviction grows, 

* "The One Woman." By Thomas Dixon, 
Jr. New York: Doubleday, Page & Com- 

1 62 


from page to page, that Mr. Dixon has 
not been fair to the belief he has set up 
to combat. It takes a big man to be en- 
tirely fair to theories in which he does 
not believe, and only the biggest men are 
entirely fair, in having no theories to be- 
lieve or disbelieve. To a mouthing, play- 
acting sort of fellow like this preacher- 
hero, socialism may mean the license to 
leave his wife for the first handsome 
woman who takes his fancy, and then 
crawl back, self-confessed a contemptible, 
cowardly murderer, when the woman of 
his fancy avails herself of the same lib- 
erty. But socialism does not always 
mean this, and never merely this. Mr. 
Dixon has frankly libelled Herr Most 
and his fellow leaders of advanced 
thought; the most rabid anarchist of 
them all has never made his social tenets 
the excuse for such weak-spined black- 
guardism as characterizes the Rev. Frank 

Since Mr. Dixon elected to put his 
preachment into the form of fiction, there 
must be a story to carry all the weight of 
his rather cumbersome moralizing. Apart 
from its anti-socialist lessons, it is a 
good, healthy story that cannot only 
stand on its own legs, but can even "take 
up weight" and run a good race for the 
valued stakes of sensationalism. Many a 
melodrama that finds favour with the 
theatrical gods of Third Avenue is less 
prolific of thrills. Mr. Dixon has none 
of the puling sentimentalism that takes 
fright at vigorous action and exciting 

"situations." When he gets his preacher 
and both wives by chance on the same 
train, he does not balk at a wreck which 
shall give wife number one the oppor- 
tunity to show her forgiving disposition 
by rescuing wife number two from cer- 
tain death. When the hig-hearted re- 
former murders his best friend and then 
plays Porphyria's lover with the woman 
for whom he had fought, a very dramatic 
snowstorm intervenes to keep the police 
from his trail for two days. When he 
has been convicted and sentenced to 
death, and the ever-faithful consort of his 
earlier days has successfully interceded 
with the Governor (who happens con- 
veniently to be an old lover) Nature 
again waxes dramatic. A storm lays low 
the wire that should carry news of the 
pardon, a wreck stops the special train, 
and the race with death develops an ex- 
citing finish. "The warden put his hand 
on the electric switch. There was a shout 
and a stir without, the thump of hurrying 
feet, and the butt of a guard's gun thun- 
dered against the door. The warden 
sprang forward. *Stop! The Governor T 
he heard faintly shouted through the 
deep-padded panels." 

Mr. Dixon has, I am confident, tried 
honestly to write a readable novel. Be- 
ing a preacher, he is not entirely to be 
blamed for his inability to divorce his 
story from an anti-socialistic tract, with- 
out which it would be very good reading 
of the blood and thunder variety. 

Edward Clark Marsh, 



ALTHOUGH singleness of pur- 
pose is not necessarily the be-all 
and the end-all of the successful 
novel, it is safe to say that few 
stories have obtained a genuine and last- 
ing success which did not contain some 
simple, elemental idea capable of being 
summed up in a single, terse sentence. It 
is probable that no better advice could be 
given to the young writer of fiction than 
to warn him not to begin a book until he 
was quite sure that he had some definite, 

central motive, capable of being embodied 
within the brief space of a telegraphic 
blank. The big novels of the past, those 
that really deserve a permanent place on 
our shelves, can nearly all of them be 
summed up in a ten-word sentence; and 
this includes not merely problem novels, 
a class which in its essence propounds a 
definite, clear-cut problem, but also the 
big stories of adventure, the romantic 
novels of the Scott and Dumas type, even 
a book like The Three Guardsmen, con- 




taining episode after episode and story 
within story, can after all in its simplest 
form he reduced to the ten- word limit: 
"How four heroes saved the Queen's 
honour and outwitted Richelieu." Of 
modern novelists the French in this re- 
spect are distinctly superior to the Eng- 
lish and American writers. They confine 
themselves much more closely to the point 
at issue. Having selected their problem 
they try to reduce it to its simplest terms, 
to eliminate extraneous events and char- 
acters and make the case they are study- 
ing a typical rather than an exceptional 
case. The great trouble with a large pro- 
portion of our own writers is that in their 
search for novelty, in their desire to pro- 
duce something original and startling and 
bizarre, they complicate and confuse the 
central theme until one is often left in 
doubt whether* they themselves have a 
clear idea of just what they are trying 
to do. 

Among the novels of the past month 
there are two or three which, without be- 
ing especially remarkable, stand out 
among the others because they do show a 
certain definite attempt to develop the 
central theme logically and consistently. 
One of these is The Millionaire's Son, by 
Anna Robeson Brown. It is an attempt 
to show how an inherited instinct for 
money winning may hamper a man in the 
choice of his life's work. Paul Ellicott 
is an instance of reversion to type; the 
scholarly instinct of a long line of college 
bred ancestors — an instinct with which 
his father has no sympathy, has unex- 
pectedly cropped out again in him. The 

"The Millionaire's Son." By Anna Robe- 
son Brown. Boston: Messrs. Dana, Estcs 
& Co. 

"The Law of Life." By Anna McClure 
Sholl. New York: Messrs. D. Appleton & 

"The Silver Poppy." By Arthur Stringer. 
New York: Messrs. D. Appleton & Co. 

"A Doctor of Philosophy." By Cyrus 
Townsend Brady. New York: Messrs. 
Charles Scribner's Sons. 

"Eleanor Dayton." By Nathaniel Ste- 
phenson. New York: John Lane. 

"Monsigny." By Justus Miles Forman. 
New York: Messrs. Doubleday. Page & Co. 

"The Fortunes of Fifi." By Molly Elliot 
Seawell. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill Co. 

"An April Princess." By Constance 
Smcdley. New York: Messrs. Dodd, Mead 
& Co. 

"A Parish of Two." By Henry Goelet 
McVickar and Percy Collins. Boston: The 
D. Lothrop Publishing Co. 

father is a type of self-made man, ab- 
sorbed in playing the game of life, in 
moving men like so many pawns on the 
huge checker board of the financial 
world ; and his great ambition is that Paul 
shall follow in his steps, and in his turn 
take a hand at moulding the destinies of 
railroads, and banks, and corporations. 
But he knows that his own lack of culture 
has handicapped him in the struggle. 
And for this reason he determines that 
his son shall have in abundance the edu- 
cation which he himself missed. But 
when Paul's college days, supplemented 
by a year of two of post graduate work, 
are over, the time comes when his father 
expects him to settle down to serious 
work, and here the struggle begins. Paul 
suddenly finds that he is at war with him- 
self. On the one hand he has inherited 
from his father a keen knowledge of men, 
a clear head for business ventures, a love 
for the feverish excitement of playing the 
big game for its own sake. On the other 
hand, he has the scholar's love of knowl- 
edge and research, and he finds himself 
slipping away from the office at the ear- 
liest possible minute, even in the midst 
of a financial crisis, to gain an extra hour 
over his books. The turning-point in the 
story is rather ingeniously worked up. 
There is a thriving young University in 
the city where the Ellicotts live, and it 
suddenly attracts attention by the an- 
nouncement of a new and munificent 
scholarship, the founder of which is to 
remain anonymous until the ensuing com- 
mencement day. When commencement 
arrives, great consternation is caused by 
the discovery that the millionaire's son is 
the successful competitor for this scholar- 
ship, which is the secret gift of the mil- 
lionaire himself. The unexpected coinci- 
dence, looking as it does very much like a 
preconcerted arrangement, robs the old 
man's gift of much of that halo of glory 
which he had expected to gain from it, 
and incidentally causes a lasting breach 
between himself and his son. It serves 
the purpose, however, of proving to the 
latter that his true path in life lies in the 
direction of letters, rather than the stock 

The Law of Life, by Anna McClure 
Sholl, is another instance of a book writ- 
ten with a pretty clear conception of what 
the author wanted to do. The theme is 
not a novel one; it deals with the old 



problem of what will happen where youth 
weds old age, mistaking sympathy and 
gratitude for love. There is, however, a 
commendable novelty about the stage set- 
ting — a thriving Western university 
which has just secured a new and ener- 
getic president, one it is hinted for whom 
they outbid even Yale itself. Barbara 
Dare is a member of the Freshman class 
— for the University is co-educational — 
and §he is the ward of old Dr. Penfold, 
the most absent-minded professor on the 
faculty. An orphan from childhood, Bar- 
bara knows little of the fundamental facts 
of life. Marriage to her means simply a 
wider opportunity to be useful to the old 
professor, to take his dictation, and copy 
his manuscript for him. So at the close 
of her Freshman year she becomes his 
wife. It is only afterwards that the 
woman in her awakens, and a younger 
man. Dr. Penfold's assistant, brings her 
to an understanding of what love really 
means. It is at this point in the book that 
the author shows a lack of courage. Bar- 
bara and Waring have drifted to a point 
at which in real life there would be no 
turning back, nor would there have been 
in the book without the intervention of a 
third person, and the manner in which 
this is managed is by no means convinc- 
ing. Granting, however, that the two are 
to be saved in spite of themselves, the 
manner in which they finally separate is 
worked out with considerable dramatic 
strength. The question whether a certain 
notorious millionaire shall become one of 
the trustees of the University shakes that 
institution almost to its foundation. War- 
ing is most bitter in his opposition to the 
new trustee, and after the latter's appoint- 
ment he continues to fight a losing battle 
with the full approval of Barbara, al- 
though they both know that the inevitable 
outcome will be a request for Waring's 
resignation, which will effect a permanent 
separation between them. 

A clever story with a rather unfortu- 
nate title is The Silver Poppy, by Arthur 
Stringer. It introduces us at the outset 
into«certain phases of New York's lit- 
erary and artistic Bohemia; and readers 
who are familiar with this side of metro- 
politan life will no doubt amuse them- 
selves with attempts to identify more than 
one of Mr. Stringer's characters. The 
hero is a young Englishman, a stranger 
in the city, and at a literary gathering in 

a fashionable studio he meets the woman 
who is destined almost to wreck his life. 
Her first introduction into the story is dis- 
tinctly dramatic. Long after the details 
of the scene have faded, one still retains 
the impression of a sinuous figure, clad in 
clinging folds of yellow silk and of the 
strange and curiously thrilling tones of a 
soft, Southern voice. And throughout 
the book one is not allowed to escape from 
the memory of that clinging silken robe, 
the echo of that voice, with all the un- 
spoken and unspeakable thoughts that it 
suggested, a haunting suggestion of a 
beauty that had, nevertheless, something 
malignant about it, like a poisonous 
flower. This woman is reputed to be 
a famous author; she has the credit of 
having written the novel of the hour, 
The Silver Poppy, It is an open secret 
that she is engaged upon still another 
story, and she promptly fastens upon 
the young Englishman and flatters his 
vanity by interesting herself in his work, 
and by soliciting his advice regarding 
her own. Almost before he knows it, the 
young Englishman is fast in her toils. 
That her new book is worthless he sees 
at a glance, but the underlying idea is 
good, and soon he finds himself collabo- 
rating with her, concentrating his atten- 
tion upon the task of revising the book, 
giving himself up to it body and soul and 
making it his own by the splendid trans- 
formation which turns it into a work of 
genius. And in the end the woman, like 
the soft, treacherous, yellow vampire that 
she is, after draining the very life blood 
of his genius, appropriates the whole fruit 
of his labour to her own greater glory, 
bringing it out in her own name, just as 
she previously did in the case of her ear- 
lier victim's work. The Silver Poppy, 

An excellent example of a good idea 
spoiled in the development, apparently 
because the author was not quite sure of 
what he was trying to do, is Cyrus 
Townsend Brady's latest volume, A Doc- 
tor of Philosophy. It would seem as though 
Mr. Brady had begun by mulling over the 
question whether our attitude toward the 
colour line is a matter of education or of 
inherited prejudice, and he ended by 
evolving this specific case. Take a young 
man and a young girl, each to all outward 
appearance of pure Anglo-Saxon blood. 
The man, however, is just one-sixteenth 
negro, and he knows it; he has always 



known it. He has grown up in conscious 
acceptance of the fact that his interests 
and his life work are allied with the negro 
race. The girl also is one-sixteenth 
negro; her mother was an octoroon, but 
the fact has been carefully concealed from 
her and from the world at large. She 
has grown up to all intents and purposes 
a white girl, with all the advantages that 
money and social position can give her. 
Now the question is, if the truth is sud- 
denly revealed to her after she has 
reached womanhood, can she throw aside 
her life-long prejudices, frankly recog- 
nise herself as belonging to the coloured 
race, and be happy in a union with a man 
in whose veins there is precisely the same 
taint as in her own. This problem, al- 
though palpably artificial in its construc- 
tion, might have been interestingly 
worked out, but Mr. Brady has intro- 
duced so many complications and side 
issues that the central idea has been al- 
most lost sight of. He has amused him- 
self through several chapters by satirising 
the conservatism and the self-compla- 
cency of the more exclusive circles of 
Philadelphia society. He has represented 
his heroine as the daughter of a million- 
aire, a man who could easily buy up all 
of Philadelphia's aristocracy if he so 
chose, but who has failed to win recogni- 
tion from them because he happens to re- 
side too far north of Chestnut Street. 
The girl, however, has sufficient beauty 
and charm to win her way inside of this 
exclusive circle, and she is on the point of 
marr>'ing into one of the oldest and 
proudest families of them all when the 
revelation of her origin forces her in 
honour to break the engagement. It is 
at this point in the story that the girl, in 
order to put a permanent barrier between 
herself and the man she loves, and also 
to force herself to recognise her own in- 
feriority, marries the coloured man. Her 
subsequent desperate act when she finds 
her married life unendurable Mr. Brady 
would have us believe was wholly due to 
racial antipathy, but he has so obscured 
the issue that the reader cannot help feel- 
ing that it was in part the revulsion of 
feeling not unnatural to a woman who 
has recklessly married one man, whatever 
his colour, while her heart belonged to 

Nathaniel Stephenson is a writer who 
in the past has shown himself ca- 

pable of singling out a clear-cut theme 
and following it logically to the end. In 
this respect The Beautiful Mrs. Moult on 
was an excellent piece of work, and de- 
served a good deal more attention than 
it received. And that is why Mr. Ste- 
phenson's new story, Eleanor Dayton, 
comes as such a distinct disappointment. 
The scene opens in Paris, the Paris of 
the Second Empire. The elite of the city 
are flocking to a fashionable studio, the 
studio of Saint Antoine, who has just 
completed a portrait of a beautiful 
American girl, the Eleanor Dayton of the 
title. The portrait is a rather remark- 
able one. It is not merely the picture of 
a beautiful woman, but the artist by subtle 
intuition has infused into it a half-veiled 
expression of mature knowledge and suf- 
fering which causes comment and arrests 
the attention of no less a personage than 
the Emperor himself. Desirous of judg- 
ing for himself whether the artist has 
produced a faithful portrait, Napoleon 
summons the young girl before him in 
order to compare her with the picture. 
"Mademoiselle,'' he tells her, finally, "let 
me say that I have proved Saint Antome 
to be a romancer. You have much to 
suffer before you look like that portrait." 
But as he says these words there comes 
over the girl's face a subtle change. "As 
if the Emperor's words had touched some 
hidden spring that released her emo- 
tions," and gives Saint Antoine courage 
to whisper, "Sire, am I not justified of 
my creation?" The fact is that Eleanor 
is standing upon the brink of a tragedy, 
and the greater part of the volume is 
taken up with retrospective chapters, ex- 
plaining the events which led up to the 
final crisis. If Mr. Stephenson had any 
definite purpose in writing the story be- 
yond that of producing a readable story, 
the present reviewer failed to discover it. 
In fairness, however, it must be acknowl- 
edged that the book is readable, and the 
chapters have a way of stopping short at 
crucial moments — a trick that ought to 
have made it eminently successful for 
serial purposes. 

There are just a few writers who have 
a peculiar lightness of touch that enables 
them to take their materials from moon- 
light and rainbows and gossamer webs 
and weave them into light and airy little 
tales that seem full of blue sky and the 
song of birds and the perfume of spring. 

1 66 


It is not so much legitimate art as it is 
a trick of style, a special mood, a de- 
liberate affectation. Henry Harland is 
an adept at just this sort of thing, and 
Justus Miles Forman is proving himself 
one of Mr. Harland's faithful disciples. 
If not taken too seriously there is a good 
deal of charm about Monsigny with its 
Old World atmosphere of formal gar- 
dens and venerable chateaux with larks 
singing overhead and a scent of roses 
everywhere. It is just the setting for an 
idyllic love story and the two young lov- 
ers are so frankly open-hearted and so 
genuinely convinced that they are the 
first people in the world who ever loved 
quite so fondly or ever exchanged the 
same world old pledges that the whole 
effect is rather refreshing. One cannot 
expect much of a plot in such a light- 
hearted little tale, but Mr. Forman has 
introduced a serpent into his Eden in the 
form of a woman with a heterogeneous 
past as well as a rather complicated pres- 
ent. This woman has a mysterious hold 
upon the young lover, who once in the 
past had offered her his life's devotion, 
and while she herself intends to marry 
another man she cannot bear to see her 
- first victim escape from his bondage. 
For a few pages matters look very black 
indeed, but the clouds soon pass over and 
on the closing page the roses are bloom- 
ing, the larks singing as blithely as ever, 
and the young lovers oblivious to the ex- 
istence of the rest of the world. 

France is also the scene of an unpre- 
tentious little story by Molly Elliot Sea- 
well, The Fortunes of Fifi — ^this time the 
France of the First Empire. It concerns 
more or less directly the fortunes of an 
obscure little playhouse with the preten- 
tious name of the Imperial Theatre, a 
house which would never have risen 
above mediocrity if the Emperor himself 
had not chanced one night to pass 
through the narrow Rue du Chat Noir 
and recognised in the person of Car- 
touche, actor, stage manager, and thea- 
trical jack-of-all-trades, one of his former 
grenadiers. Now Cartouche was self- 
appointed guardian of Mademoiselle Fifi, 
the theatre's leading lady. He had picked 
her up years before in the market-place 
of Mantua, a desolate child who did not 
understand that the mother she was vain- 
ly trying to awaken was dead. He had 

larded her against the world ever since, 


often going hungry and cold that Fifi 
might he well fed and warmly clad. It 
had never occurred to him that he, Car- 
touche, stiff of knee, old, and weather- 
beaten, was capable of rousing a respon- 
sive interest in the heart of the capricious 
Mademoiselle Fifi. And as a matter of 
fact this was just what had happened. 
But on this red-letter night in the history 
of the Imperial Theatre, when the Em- 
peror's presence threw the whole com- 
pany into an agreeable flutter, Fifi un- 
fortunately awakened his Imperial inter- 
est to such an extent that his subsequent 
investigations proved her to be a near 
relative of the Pope; while close upon 
this discovery came Fifi's second stroke 
of fortune, a lottery ticket that drew the 
first prize amounting to a hundred thou- 
sand francs. If an obscure little actress 
in the Rue du Chat Noir had seemed be- 
yond Carthouche's reach, an heiress who 
was also niece of the Pope might well fill 
the old grenadier with despair. Made- 
moiselle Fifi, however, was a young 
woman who knew what she wanted, and 
the means which she took to rid herself of 
a troublesome fortune and obnoxious 
relatives makes an amusing story, lightly 

There seems to be a passing fad just 
now for books that dispense with the use 
of name and surname, and affix to the 
different characters such apposite and 
euphonious labels as the Only Girl, the 
Handsome Man, or the Cheerful Idiot. 
It is only a few weeks since we had a 
book of this type in which the hero and 
heroine were respectively designated as 
The Little Teacher and The Man With 
the Wooden Face, and under these names 
they survived through more than three 
hundred pages, in fact we are left with a 
suspicion that these were the names under 
which they were finally married. An- 
other volume of the same type, although 
written with a much lighter touch, is An 
April Princess, by Constance Smedley. 
A glance over the Table of Contents 
shows that the Princess of the title has in 
her train an extensive staff of devoted 
followers, including a Poet, an Artist, a 
Mountebank, a Free Lance, a False 
Prince, and a Quiet Man. It is a trans- 
parent little story, because one can scarce- 
ly go half way through the second chap- 
ter without feeling morally certain that 
in the struggle for the hand of the Prin- 



cess it would be safe to stake heavy 
odds upon the Quiet Man, in spite of the 
fact that the latter is just starting for a 
prolonged stay in Uganda. It is for the 
very reason that he is going away that 
the Princess feels that they can safely 
say anything they please to each other. 

"With reservations," said the Quiet 

"With no reservations," said the Prin- 
cess, firmly. 

"I shall never see you again, so I shall 
say everything that comes into my head, 
even the silly-billy things like 'What a 
nice straight nose you have !' " It is prob- 
ably because so many of the things that 
they say to each other on this last day 
are merely "silly-billy things" that the 
Quiet Man finds that he cannot forget 
her even in distant Uganda, and the Prin- 
cess finds that the united efforts of the 
Free Lance and the Mountebank and the 
False Prince and all the rest cannot drive 
out the memory of the Quiet Man. And 
when he finally does come home she dis- 
covers all of a sudden that he is no longer 
merely the Quiet Man, but the King in 
whose favour she is quite ready to abdi- 
cate. Frankly, the book is somewhat too 
long drawn out, and in places it is rather 
a "silly-billy" book, to borrow the au- 
thor's own words. But it would do no 
great harm if there were more books of 
the same sort. 

In spite of the fact that there is some- 
thing rather insufferable about the whole 
class of epistolary novels, A Parish of 
Two offers upon closer inspection a cer- 
tain refreshing novelty. Stories written 
in collaboration usually afford room for 
speculation as to what share each of the 
joint authors has had in their production, 
but in the present case the question is 
answered on the title page, one of the au- 
thors, Mr. H. G. McVickar, being respon- 
sible for one-half the letters, and Mr. 
"Percy Collins" (the Reverend Price Col- 
lier) for those written in reply. Of the 
two men who are supposed to carry on 
this correspondence one is a hopeless crip- 
ple, writing from the circumscribed out- 
look of a New England home, the other 

roams restlessly from New York to 
Florida, vainly seeking distraction for a 
disappointed life. The letters in them- 
selves are bright, and entertaining, rang- 
ing from Pliny and Heine and Amiel's 
Diary to discussions of marital morality, 
and sparkling with epigrams such as 
"traditions are parasites that sap prog- 
ress," "a hansom cab is a sedan chair on 
wheels," and "loneliness is a sense of 
nakedness with this difference, that when 
naked you attract the attention of others, 
and when lonely you attract none." One 
is lured into reading the book fully one- 
third through before discovering that the 
letters in their leisurely, desultory way, 
are telling a story. The restless man, the 
one who wanders vainly from New York 
to Florida in search of some distraction 
from the memory of an unhappy mar- 
riage, finally meets a woman who inter- 
ests him largely because she too is un- 
happy, tied to a husband who seems to 
spend his life in ingenious efforts to hu- 
miliate her and make her wretched. The 
story of this woman, of what she is, and 
what he thinks she is, all goes into the 
letters that he writes to the crippled 
friend, sitting in his wheeled chair in 
West Brain tret Mass And the crippled 
friend in turn opens his heart. He too 
loves a woman who is unhappily married 
and whose husband is much the same sort 
of a man that his friend has so graphical- 
ly described in his letters. There are 
some plots which are so manifestly the 
outcome of a logical sequence of events 
that a fore-knowledge of the end does not 
detract from the reader*s enjoyment; 
there are others which owe their chief 
enjoyment to the element of surprise that 
they involve, and in books of this class it 
is eminently unfair to reveal too much in 
advance. The connection which exists 
between the two women who form re- 
spectively the chief subject of the two 
correspondents in this volume of let- 
ters is a well-kept secret up to the close 
of the book, and it is one which the 
reader should be left to discover at his 

Frederic Taber Cooper. 


'Tis Love they've fluted, luted, sung; 
'Tis unto Love they've crept and ciung; 
And e'er round Love new garlands hung, 

'Tis Love, Love, Love, the Hvelong day, 
Until it seems quite thumbed away. 
The old, worn string whereon they play. 

Some long ago are dead and cold, 
E^rth, sun, and stars, are growing old, 
But still the talc is far from told. 

Nor shall it e'er be told, in truth. 
While April knows not Autumn's ruth. 
While Youth looks in the eyes of Youth. 

Nor shall the string once hang outworn. 

Since Life itself of Love is born. 

And as Life wanes, must sing its morn. 

Arthur Stringer. 


PETER and Dirk had always been 
quarrelsome friends — as boys 
building make-believe dykes in 
the old country of Holland — as 
pig-headed youths courting two girls of 
one family and each detennined to get the 
girl the other loved best — as puzzled 
bridegrooms voyaging across the sea to 
wrestle home and fortune from America 
— and, lastly, they remained quarrelsome 
friends when they took up their perma- 
nent abiding place in the little Dutch 
hamlet of Vonstradam on the South 
Shore of Long Island. 

They hired a house together with a 
flower garden in front and a vegetable 
garden of exquisite neatness in the rear, 
while flowers and vegetables held gossipy 
growing matches all day long at the edge 
Oi tb? si4« fences. But Peter's vege- 

tables bore better than Dirk's ; while Mrs. 
Dirk's flowers blossomed with more gor- 
geous triumph of coloring than Mrs. 
Peter's ; so here at the beginning was 
something to quarrel about. Then, as if 
that were not enough, Peter and Dirk 
borrowed money together with which to 
buy a cat-boat ; and then, day after day, 
they went sailing out of the harbor to the 
oyster beds and to long, wrangling hours 
during which each worked with all his 
might for the little jvife of his own, for 
his own half of the house and garden in 

How it came about, neither could have 
told, but the subject upon which they had 
never quarreled in words, the subject for 
dispute which cut deepest into their two 
hearts, came to be out-spoken one day at 
the ?nd of the hard labouring, when the 



deck of their boat was piled high with 
oysters, when the tongs lay, with gleam- 
ing jaws closed, stretched like long, lean 
hands upon the deck ; and Peter stood at 
the tiller pointing the nose of the boat 

"It was Minnie, my wife, that you 
wanted," cried Peter, turning to look 
fiercely at Dirk, who sat with his legs 
crossed under him just back of the tiller. 

Dirk sighed. He was tired and the 
lulling sound of the waters made him un- 
usually averse to quarreling. His failure 
to retort, to deny, made the veins swell in 
Peter's neck and the blood rush hotly to 
his forehead. The man rose from his 
crouching position and left the manage- 
ment of the tiller to his legs in order 
that he might swing his arms and fists in 
the emphatic, harmless way most familiar 
to his brother-in-law. 

"I tell you, it was Minnie, my wife, 
that you wanted !" Peter roared. 

The waves lapped against the side of 
the boat with little splashes of alarm; 
then fell into a rhythm of gurgling 
laughter, for how often had they heard 
Dirk and Peter quarrel ! Dirk caressed 
his knees with his hands and looked over 
the waters to where Vonstradam Point 
thrust its long arm into the Bay. Be- 
yond the Point, waited the litt harbour, 
the bending road, the narrow lane, his 
wife and Peter's. Peter's voice rose 
once again; hoarse, loud, and exaspe- 
rated — as deep as the sound of the waves 
beneath the lashing of the storm. 

"Minnie — my wife — you wanted!" 

Dirk looked up and grinned. His 
cloak of silence, which might have come 
to be the cloak of peace to-day, fell from 
him; and lo! the devil of rash taunting 
spoke jeeringly from between his lips : 

"Say, rather, it was my wife you 
wanted and your wife who still wants 

Suddenly, ashamed of his own words, 
Dirk arose as he spoke, as if to get away 
from himself, and balanced his figure 
with unconscious grace where he stood in 
the stern. Peter, burly and thick-set, 
noted the other's lithe form, the strong, 
graceful poise of his head and shoulders. 
There came a low, muttered curse from 
Peter, then the tiller moved with an un- 
usual sound ; but Dirk did not turn. In- 
stead, he looked over the water to the 
bending, blue Point of Vonstradam, over 

the waters to the homestead-dotted shores 
of Long Island; then over the waters to 
where the sun was making a glory of all 
the western sky. Some new, half sweet, 
half painful sensation was struggling in 
his heart. He did not know what to call 
it, but it made him wish to turn to Peter 
and sav: 

"This is no time for quarreling. I'm 
sorry. Let's quit." 

But before any new words could check 
the fierce current of the old, Peter stood 
directly behind him, calling out : 

"Say my wife's name again !" 

Dirk turned, half smiling, half ashamed 
of his shame, and beheld Peter standing 
above him, the tiller raised in both his 
hands, Peter's face, the face of a man 
gone mad with fury. 

'Tetcrr called Dirk and that was all. 
Before Peter realised the remorse, the 
pleading, the great love in that cry, the 
tiller had crashed down upon Dirk's 
head ; there was the sickening sweep of 
a body across the deck ; the waters opened 
their great, noisy jaws ; and no one was 
left on the boat save Peter. 

The boat drifted this way, then that; 
until mechanically, Peter put the tiller 
back into its place and pointed once more 
for the shores of Vonstradam. In his 
ears still sounded the splash of the waters 
over Dirk's body, and, strangely enough, 
there mingled with this sound the echo of 
the two wives singing on the door steps at 
home. Yet Peter did not turn his head 
toward the spot where the waters had 
splashed. Instead he gazed up at the sail 
and, with a dry, stifling sob, noticed that 
the wind had begun to fill the canvas. 

On sailed Peter. Far ahead, were the 
boats of the other Baymen ; over against 
the Beach hills, here and there a white 
sail drifted along, like a bird slowly 
skimming homeward. 

"No one could have seen," muttered 
Peter. Then with a great shudder: "Nor 
heard. Good God, how he cried !" 

The little clock in the cabin was ticking 
hours, not seconds, now ; the light on the 
sea did not fade but grew more and more 
like the light of high-noon ; so Peter 
could not have told how long he sailed 
before his eyes fell upon a pair of wet 
and grasping hands, and then upon 
Dirk's face staring at him from over the 
gunwale. The face was white save for 
the blue stain across its clean-cuf 



the hair clinging wet upon the forehead, 
the eyes were wide with the strain of ex- 
ertion, and hauntingly beautiful with the 
sense of death and danger passed. 

"Peter, my brother," the opening lips 
called, as a voice calls back from the 
dead. "Let me aboard. I was foolin'." 

With the sound of Dirk's speaking, 
Peter's fear passed away, and a rage such 
as made all his other furies like play, 
seized hold of the man. He dropped the 
tiller and went leaping down into the 
cabin. A moment later, he was back, an 
axe in his hands. Now the ghastly face 
was hidden, the head hanging helplessly 
downward, while upon the gunwale 
nothing was left but the fingers of Dirk's 
two hands, gripping, gripping, yet slip- 
ping painfully. Peter lifted the axe with 
never a turn of his head and brought 
down the blade — once, twice, three times. 
There are many ways of paying old 

The eight fingers rolled along the deck. 
Peter took them up one by one and threw 
them overboard. 

The water received them with little 
spasms of laughter. How often before 
had they watched Dirk and Peter quar- 

The wives were gossiping happily 
across the invisible dividing line of their 
flower gardens — they never quarreled ex- 
cept in support of their respective hus- 
bands — when Peter came trudging, with 
slow, reluctant steps, into the yard. 

"Where is Dirk?" both women asked 
at once, repeating the question which had 
followed Peter through the harbour and 
up the lane — ^the question which meant: 
"Where is Dirk? How does it happen 
that you two friends are not together, 
quarreling ?" 

"Where is Dirk?" repeated Dirk's 

Peter could not meet her eyes. He 
leaned against the limb of a stunted apple 
tree, for once forgetting whether the tree 
belonged in Dirk's half of the garden or 
in his. 

"Dirk, he fell overboard. ... I 
hunted and hunted. ... He fell 
overboard. . . . I — I — ." 

Peter began to mutter senselessly and 
not a leaf on that wind-stirred tree 
trembled more than Peter trembled then. 

"He fell overboard 1" repeated the 
widowed one of the two sisters, half 

dazed. "He — my God! Did you hear 
what Peter said, Minnikin ?" 

Minnie looked at her blankly and with 
a great, benumbing grief in her eyes — a, 
grief as great as that of the widow. 
Then, of a sudden, the two women were 
sobbing and shaking in each other's arms. 

"I loved him," wailed the widow over 
and over again. 

"I loved him!" cried Peter's wife. 
"God knows that I loved him 1" 

Peter, unnoticed by either of the 
women, stole into the house. It was 
Dirk's kitchen that he entered first, and 
then, on tip-toes, as if afraid to awaken 
the dead. Dirk's gaudy "front room." 
There Dirk's penciled features, crude but 
with great, life-like, haunting eyes, stared 
down from the wall at him ; and there, all 
through the empty room, rang the cry of : 

"Peter! My brother T 

Peter sat down on a stool opposite the 
picture and rested his head in his hands. 
His slow intelligence, already tortured al- 
most to madness, was trying to grasp the 
full meaning of what had been said out- 
side in the garden. 

"She loved you," he whispered, his 
lips against his trembling palms. "My 
wife, she loved you. I thought you lied, 
but — she loved you." Then, at last, with 
a cry of complete comprehension, he 
started up : 

"Dirk, all these years, she has loved 
you !" 

He went reeling across the room, like 
a drunken man, shaking his clenched 
fists at the picture on the wall and roar- 

"You always did have the luck on your 
side, damn you I And now you've got 
the best of it again. . . . Coward 1 
To go and let me kill you before I really 
knew. . . . Oh, if I only had the 
killing of you — now!*' 

He stood in front of the picture, papt- 
ing, baffled, his face livid with impotent 
rage. Outside the window, he could hear 
the two women weeping together — weep- 
ing for the man whose penciled face hung 
on the wall. 

The serene, penciled lips of Dirk's por- 
trait made no murmur nor sound, but the 
great, soft, grey eyes looked full into 
Peter's and called out with maddening 
sweetness : 

"Peter, my brother !" 

Louise Forsslund. 


A student of the literature of our own 
time who has only recently completed his 
first half-century of life cannot help feel- 
ing suddenly aged and almost antiquated 
when he awakes to the fact that he has 
been privileged to see the completed lit- 
erary career of two such accomplished 
craftsmen as Robert Louis Stevenson and 
Guy de Maupassant. In youth they were 
full of promise, and in maturity they were 
alike rich in performance ; and at last the 
lives of both came to an end all too soon, 
when their powers were still growing, 
when their outlook on life was still broad- 
ening, and when they bid fair, both of 
them, to bring forth many another book 
riper and wiser than any they had already 
given us. 

The points of contrast between the two 
men thus untimely taken away are as 
striking as the points of similarity. Both 
were artists ardently in love with the 
technic of their craft, delighting in 
their own skill, and ever on the alert to 
find new occasion for the display of their 
mastery of the methods of fiction. Ste- 
venson was a Scotchman; and his pseu- 
do-friend has told us that there was in 
him something of "the shorter catechist." 
Maupassant was a Norman, and he had 
never given a thought to the glorifying 
of God. The man who wrote in English 
found the theme of his minor master- 
pieces in the inevitable and inexorable 
conflict of which the battle-ground is the 
human heart. The man who wrote in 
French began by caring little or nothing 
for the heart or the soul or the mind, and 
by concentrating all his skill upon a rec- 
ord of the deeds of the human body. The 
one has left us Markheim and the 
^Strange Case of Dr, Jekyll and Mr, 
Hyde, while the other made his first bid 
for fame with "Boule de Suif." 

In the preface of Pierre et Jean, 
Maupassant has recorded how he 
borrowed from Louis Bouilhet the be- 
lief that a single lyric, a scant hundred 
lines, would give immortality to a poet if 
only the work were fine enough, and that 
for the author who sought to escape 
oblivion there was only one course to pur- 
sue — to learn his trade thoroughly, to 

master every secret of the craft, to do his 
best always, in the hope that some for- 
tunate day the Muse would reward his 
unfailing devotion. And from Flaubert, 
the author of that merciless masterpiece 
Madame Bovary, the young man learned 
the importance of individuality, of 
originality, of the personal note which 
should be all his own, and which 
should never suggest or recall any one 
else's. Flaubert was kindly and en- 
couraging, but he was a desperately se- 
vere taskmaster. At Flaubert's dictation 
Maupassant gave up verse for prose; 
and for seven years he wrote inces- 
santly and published nothing. The sto- 
ries and tales and verses and dramas of 
those seven years of apprenticeship were 
ruthlessly criticised by the author of Sa- 
lavtbo, and then they were destroyed un- 
printed. In all the long history of litera- 
ture there is no record of any other au- 
thor who served so severe a novitiate. 

Douglas Jerrold once said of a certain 
British author who had begun to publish 
very young that "he had taken down the 
shutters before he had anything to put up 
in the shop window." From being trans- 
fixed by such a jibe Maupassant was 
preserved by Flaubert. When he was 
thirty he contributed that masterpiece of 
ironic humour, "Boule de Suif," to the 
Soirees de Medan, a volume of short sto- 
ries put forth by the late £mile Zola, with 
the collaboration of a little group of his 
friends and followers. On this first ap- 
pearance in the arena of letters Mau- 
passant stepped at once to a front rank. 
That was in 1880, and in 1892 his mind 
gave way and he was taken to the asylum, 
where he soon died. In those twelve 
years he had published a dozen volumes 
of short-stories and half-a-dozen novels. 
Of the novel he might have made himself 
master in time; of the short-story he 
proved himself a master with the very 
earliest of all his tales. 

It must be admitted at once that many 
of Maupassant's earlier short-stories 
have to do with the lower aspects 
of man's merely animal activity. Mau- 
passant had an abundance of what the 
French themselves call "Gallic salt." HU 



humour was not squeamish ; it delighted 
in dealing with themes that our Anglo- 
Saxon prudery prefers not to touch. But 
even at the beginning this liking of his 
for the sort of thing that we who speak 
English prefer to avoid in print never 
led him to put dirt where dirt was not a 
necessary element of his narrative. Dir- 
ty many of these tales were, no doubt ; but 
many of them were perfectly clean. He 
never went out of his way to offend, as 
not a few of his compatriots seem to en- 
joy doing. He handled whatever sub- 
ject he took with the same absolute un- 
derstanding of its value, of the precise 
treatment best suited to it. H it was a 
dirty theme he had chosen — and he had 
no prejudice against such a theme — he 
did whatever was needful to get the most 
out of his subject. H it was not a dirty 
theme, then there was never any touch 
of the tar-brush. Whenever the subject 
itself was inoffensive his treatment was 
also immaculate. There is never any 
difficulty in making a choice out of his 
hundred or two brief tales : and it is easv 
to pick out a dozen or a score of his short- 
stories needing absolutely no expurgation, 
because they are wholly free from any 
phrase or any suggestion likely to bring 
the blush of shame to the cheek of inno- 
cence. In matters of taste, as we Anglo- 
Saxons regard them, Maupassant was 
a man without prejudices. But he was a 
man also of immitigable veracity in 
his dealing with the material of his 
art, in his handling of Hfe itself. He told 
the truth as it was given to him to see 
the truth ; not the whole truth, of course, 
for it is given to no man to see that. His 
artistic standard was lofty and he did his 
best not to lie about life. And in some 
ways this veracity of his may be ac- 
cepted, if not as an equivalent for moral- 
ity, at least as a not wholly unworthy 

The most of Maupassant's earlier 
tales were not a little hard and stern and 
unsympathetic; and here again Mau- 
passant was the disciple of plaubert. His 
manner was not only unemotional at first, 
it was icily impassive. These first sto- 
ries of his were cold and they were con- 
temptuous ; — at least, they made the read- 
er feel that the author heartily despised 
the pitiable and pitiful creatures he was 
depicting. They dealt mainly by the ex- 
ternals of life, — with outward actions; 

and their internal motives not always 
adequately implied. But in time the mind 
came to interest Maupassant as much 
as the body. In the beginning he 
seems to have been interested solely in 
what his characters did, and he did not 
care to tell us what they felt and what 
they thought ; probably he did not know 
himself and did not try to know. 

The inquirers who should read his sto- 
ries in the strict sequence of their pro- 
duction could not fail to be struck with 
the first awakening of his curiosity about 
human feeling; and they might easily, 
trace the steady growth of his interest in 
psychologic states. Telling us at first 
bluntly and barely what his characters 
did, he came in time to find his chief 
pleasure in suggesting to us not only 
what they felt, but especially what they 
vaguely feared. Toward the end of his 
brief career the thought of death and the 
dread of mental disease seemed to pos- 
sess him more and more with a haunting 
horror that kept recurring with a pathetic 
persistence. He developed a fondness 
for the morbid and the abnormal; and 
this is revealed in *'Le Horla," the appall- 
ing story in which he took for his 
own Fitzjames O'Brien's uncanny mon- 
ster, invisible and yet tangible. In the 
hands of the clever Irish- American 
this tale had been gruesome enough ; but 
the Frenchman was able to give it an 
added touch of terror by making the un- 
fortunate victim discover that the crea- 
ture he feared had a stronger will than 
his own and that he was being hypno- 
tised to his doom by a being whom he 
could not see, but whose presence he 
could feel. There is more than one of 
these later tales in which we seem to per- 
ceive the premonition of the madness 
which came upon Maupassant before his 

In every work of art there are at least 
four elements, which we may separate if 
we wish to consider each of them in 
turn. First of all, there is the technic 
of the author, his craftsmanship, his mas- 
tery of the tools of his trade ; and by al- 
most universal consent Maupassant is 
held to be one of the master craftsmen of 
the short-story. Second, there is the 
amount of observation of life which the 
author reveals; and here again Mau- 
passant takes rank among the leaders, 
although the sphere in which he observed 



had its marked limitations and its ob- 
vious exclusions. Thirdly, there is the 
underlying and informing imagination 
which invents and relates and sustains; 
and there is no disputing the vigour of 
Maupassant's imagination, although it 
was not lofty and although it lacked vari- 
ety. Finally, there is always to be taken 
into account what one may term the au- 
thor's philosophy of life, his attitude 
toward the common problems of human- 
ity; and here it is that Maupassant is 
most lacking, — for his opinions are negli- 
gible and his attempts at intellectual spec- 
ulation are of slight value. 

Technic can be acquired; and Mau- 
passant had studied at the feet of 
that master technician Flaubert. Obser- 
vation can be trained; and Maupassant 
had deliberately developed his power 

of vision. Imagination may be stimu- 
lated by constant endeavour to a higher 
achievement; and Maupassant's ambi- 
tions were ever tending upward. Phi- 
losophy, however, is dependent upon the 
sum total of a man's faculties, upon his 
training, upon his temperament, upon the 
essential elements of his character; and 
Maupassant was not a sound think- 
er, and his attitude toward life is 
not that by which he can best withstand 
the adverse criticism of posterity. Pri- 
marily, he was not a thinker any more 
than Hugo was a thinker, or Dickens. He 
was only an artist — an artist in fiction; 
and an artist is not called upon to be a 
thinker, although the supreme artists 
seem nearly all of them to have been men 
of real intellectual force. 

Brander Matthews. 




IF our colleges were what they 
should be, and if our newspapers 
were what they should be, there 
might be then no need of a School 
of Journalism. As things are, there is a 
place for the Joseph Pulitzer Foundation 
at Columbia University, and the best evi- 
dence thereof is the attitude of the educa- 
tor on the one hand and the journalist 
on the other toward this enterprise. The 
newspapers have been on the whole very 
courteous in comment on Mr. Pulitzer's 
gift, but also very empty of suggestions 
for its application. They do not see what 
a college can teach journalism. The pro- 
fessors and presidents have been very 
polite also, and also very barren of ideas. 
They can't see what further their colleges 
can do. 

H the Pulitzer School shall instil a 
little more humility into both these pro- 
fessions, it will have been worth the mil- 
lion dollars Mr. Pulitzer has laid down 
in cash. And if in its operation it sub- 
stitutes for this self-satisfaction, some 
dynamic unhappiness it will have justi- 
fied the second million which the editor 
of the New York World promises. His 
spirit is the right spirit. Mr. Pulitzer 
is a self-made journalist, and he founded 
his newspaper fortune in yellow journal- 

ism, the yellowest known in his day. But f 
he has grown and he has learned. He 
has improved the Nezv York World, till 
now it is almost as accurate and more 
truthful than many a ^'better paper," and, 
in editorial expression, free, sane, simple, 
forcible, and earnest. But Mr. Pulitzer 
knows he never succeeded in making 
"the" paper for the masses ; he knows his 
yellow journalists never knew what yel- 
low journalism might be ; and he knows 
that nobody he can get knows how to 
make the newspaper he can now imagine. 
He must know this since he has run a 
life career throughout the business, has 
"succeeded" so far that he can give away 
two millions of dollars and yet,, 
many of his contemporaries say, at the 
head of his profession, he gives this 
money into the hands of others, men 
with the learning he did not have, men of 
the kind that have found fault with his 
journalism and them he asks to do what 
he could not do; teach journalism and, 
perhaps, make journalists. "Ma ke jour - ; 
nalism a profess ion" is his phrase. / 

A busmess itMs, and business it must 
always be. All this talk we hear of a " 
subsidised newspaper is essentially 
wrong. The idealists, even more than 
the money-makers, should insist that the 



ment at No. 7032 Ridge Street, to-day," 
but at the beginning of their story, "how 
Patrick Healey met Mary McCormick 
on the emigrant ship seven years ago." 
If we can't have science and must have 
crime, let us have the human story, not 
as Shakespeare gave Othello's, but with 
some sense of the growth of love through 
jealousy into hate and despair. There 
is some mighty good reporting in litera- 
ture, and that I would see taught as re- 
porting, not literature. Let us have more 
of the mere telling, less of the literature; 
if the young writers would learn to re- 
port, the literature might be left to the 
Lord. My experience of the college 
graduates on newspapers was that they 
were so full of inspiration from literature 
that they had no eye left for the inspira- 
tion of life, and thus, bent on the lit- 
erary career, they missed both that and 
the news. 

Teach English, of course, the spelling 
of it, the punctuation, the grammar, 
rhetoric, and etymology. But teach it. 
somehow, as it is not often taught in col- 
leges now. W hy not begin with the use 
of it ? The fact first, cold and hard, but the 
student's very own, and simply stated 
in the student's own wav: then the hu- 
mour or the pity of it genuinely felt and 
imagined; then the idea, perceived and 
put true. Never mind the sty le, i-ike 
murder, that will outj if it is in^the man. 
Hammer out of the student only clear- 
ness ; the rest leave to him and the facts, 
and — to the brutal copy desk where "fine 
writers" are killed and only fine men who 
write escape. 

Teach ethics, not alone the ethics of 
journalism". Tea ch ethics and teac h it so 
that it^Yoll^stick. The School of Jour- 
nalism cannot make good men any more 
than it can make good journalists. You 
cannot teach_ sincerity and humour, but 
you can teach Ifie poverty"6r cynicism and 
the meanness of lying and Taking," and 
you can make men who cannot be bad 
and be happy. Now we have editors 
who "roast" with a serene conscience 
public men who submit to "pulls," the 
while they and their own newspapers are 
"pulled" all to pieces. Tell the future 
journalist what his special temptations 
are going to be, how the advertiser, as 
well as the party leader, asks to have 
reading notices inserted and proper news 
suppressed — and tell him this^so that^ 

though he may surrender, his surrender 
will be with all the discomfort of guilty 
knowledge. In brief teach him special 
ethics with the special morals of his craft. 
This for himself. For his newspaper he 
will need, moreover, ethics, plain eyery- 
day ethigjg^and this also should be baiked 
with j nora ls ; and so also he has need of 
the ethics of other professions and busi- 
nesses, and their moral, which differ most 
surprisingly, those of the merchant from 
those of the politician, those of the pro- 
moter from those of the banker and the 
lawyer and the physician. The journalist 
has to nnHprs^^nd ot;h^r men, how they 
differ and how very like they are, and 
often h e has to jtidp rp | hem. He could 
judge tTie harder for a sympathetic 
knowledge of their customs, temptations, 
and the atmosphere in which they live. 
The way to reach a politician is to reach 
his politics — the sins of his craft which 
he knows are sins. 

Teach the sciences. Here is a great 
unexploited field for journalism and there 
is room in it (as the Sunday newspapers 
show) for specialisatioij almost as vari- 
ous as science itself. Suppose a man 
should study botany with the purpose of 
reporting it all his life. He would ground 
himself in this science as thoroughly as 
the man bent on original research ; he 
would learn the "lingo," the methods, 
master the "literature," and open his 
mind to its lesser and greater queries. 
But if he were a student in the School of 
Journalism, he should be translating all 
he learned into English through a mind 
kept open to the interests of other men. 
Addin g to accuracy imagina tion, he 
would spend a useiui me (and make 
money) telling us plant "stories," their 
lives and habits ; the pursuits and triumphs 
of the botanist and the philosophy of 
botany. If we had had such a man in 
chemistry, we should not have had to 
wait so long to find out what Professor 
and Madame Curie know about radium. 
Oh, I know I am asking for John Bur- 
roughs. But that is not asking too much. 
Why should not more of the half edu- 
cated, wholely wholesome and beautiful 
men we all know, be such as he ? Not so 
wonderful, yet true, gentle, understand- 
ing reporters. 

Teach law, but teach it for a man's use, 
not a lawyer's, so thartKe^feporter can 
report" trials and interpret opinions cor- 



rectly and intelligently, and so that edi- 
torsTs^Ofe in the ethics of the profes- 
sion and in tjie principles and traditions 
of the laWy may feet safe-rn "holding the 
be nch an d_bar -lift to their duty. We need 
right now a man who can call the courts 
back to their duty, but who but a lawyer 
can do it w ith authority ? and how many 
lawyers can do it with plain, human 
force ? 

Teach history, but t each it wi th an eye 
on to-day, and teach the liistorv oTto-day 
within eye on the histo ry o FlKe'past. 
Give speciaT courses on the hist9ry of the 
East ari3"the Par East for coprespondents 
and editorial writers. And why should 
not students ambitious to become corre- 
spondents have the rudiments of war ; the 
history of diplomacy; international law, 
etc., etc.? I remember well the time 
when I wished that my college course 
had included finance in its relation to 
Wall Street and the Treasury Depart- 
ment, to railroads in operation, and trusts 
in their upbuilding. But I can remember 
many courses which I wish I had known 
when I took them were good not in them- 
selves alone. 

Any universityj iasjjlgjblggjliuinss^of a 
SchpoLjol-Journalism. Aprofessor of 
journalism who was man enough to 
judge by the instructor as well as the 
subject could probably designate- several 
cours£s_fitJfor_th£_Jiitiire_4^urnalist to 
take. So he might find others which, un- 
iiTtelli gently taught, but necessary, might 
be supplemented by the professor of jour- 
nalism himself: he to point out the hu- 
man significance of the subject-matter of 
the course. Add to these courses in sub- 
jects like geograph\\2ract ical poli tics, 
the ethics of. journalism^ modern, indus- 
trial prqblerns (like labour studied by a 
man in the ficlcl ancP taught for field 
work) — these, if all made writing 
courses, would come pretty near round- 
ing out the school for general purposes. 
But this scheme would not furnish what 
is very much needed, courses, possibly 
post-graduate, for what is sure to come, 
the specialist in journalism of whom I 
have spoken. The business in nearly all 
its branches, books, magazines, and jour- 
nals is in need of trained historians, 
geographers, economists, experts in 

finance, and politics — and government 
— who can write. And there is dire need 
of writers who know the arts, music, 
painting, and literature ; and can interpret 
the works thereof. The United States 
with all its book reviewers, has not one 
such critic of literature as Russia has 
two or three of, a guide to both writer 
and reader. 

Something has been said about teach- 
ing the business and mechanism of news- 
papers. This IS not v^ry important. It 
is nOTTfiie^hat we all learn it all in the 
course of business. The newspaper man 
in a small place may "pick up" knowl- 
edge of all branches of the business, but 
he does not do it in the great cities. It 
might be worth whilQ. to run a newspa per 
in connection^ with, the school, an3 it 
might be well worth while if it printed, 
besides the gossip of the campus, the 
news of the colleges; if it reported the 
laboratories as well as the training table. 
But one very serious service of the 
School of Journalism might be rendered 
by a study of journalism. A self-made 
business journalist is full of crass the- 
ories and blind cock-sureness"' One man 
who Ts a successful manager will tell you 
that the thing to do to succeed is to print 
local news — detailed, petty neighbour- 
hood news : and he can point to examples 
to prove his theories. Another will say 
vou have to have but verv little news, 
only interesting reading, and he can point 
to examples of success along those lines. 
None of them knows the whole business, 
nor just why he succeeds or why he fails. 
Each knows something well, and they all 
know a great deal. ILa_^trained_man 
could go Jo all of them, get from each 
his best knowledge of experience, and 
were big enough to apply it all or the 
substance of it all, he certainly could 
teach them all something, and he might 
make a great newspaper. Some one 
should gather the experimental knowl- 
edge, analyse it and sum it up. Then 
there are the foreign journalists; we 
Americans despise them, but they know 
something. Let the College of Journal- 
ism find out what it is and teach it to us. 
In a word, te ach jou rnalism, yes, but 
learirlrtifst,' somebod v. 

- Xincoln Steffens. 

PROFUSOK GlODUtOS (Sociology), 

nre). ProfrSSOR UATTKEWa l.'LUc^kXM.tvt. 


FROM all the volumes that have 
been published, from all the let- 
ters that have been written, from 
all that has been said about Hen- 
rik Ibsen there rises a singularly distinct 
picture of a man, consistent as are but 
few, in his life and in his view of life; of 
a writer from his earliest youth imbued 
with a firm belief in the genius which his 
own country was none too quick to recog- 

Of his boyhood Ibsen has given a fairly 
exhaustive account, which has been sup- 
plemented by some of his schoolfellows. 
His great -great -grand father was a Dan- 
ish skipper, who settled down at Bergen, 
and his great -great-grand mot her was of 
German extraction. Curiously enough 
his great-grandmother, his grandmother, 
and his mother were none of them Nor- 
wegians, so that believers in heredity will 

nise. but which the world has now been 
admiring for a generation — and always 
ready to accept the responsibility which 
such a gift from heaven entails; of an 
earnest and untiring student of life and 
its problems ; of a warrior, never swerv- 
ing nor flinching ; of a man self-contained 
and self-sufficient, yet warm at heart, 
scourging his fellow men and women for 
their frailties and follies with bitter. 
scathing satire, yet chivalrous and kindly 
— a striking figure, full of interest and 
full of sympathy. 

without much difficulty find ancestral 
traits of different nationalities blend and 
reappear in Henrik Ibsen. His parents. 
Knud Henrikscn Ibsen and Marichen 
Cornelia Marline Altenburrj, were mar- 
ried on December i, 1825, and their first 
child, Henrik Johan Ibsen, saw the light 
on March 20. 1828, in the small Norwe- 
gian town of Skicn, in a house on the 
market place, called Stockmann's House, 
which was destroyed in the big fire of 
August, 1886. The four sides of the 
square were closed in by buildings, and 



Ibsen himself describes his first view of 
this world as "all architecture." But this 
seems to have given him a liking for 
towns. Erik Werenskjold, his famous 
countrj-man, often noticed Ibsen looking 
at buildings in the course of erection, and 
Werenskjokl one day asked him: "You 
seem to be fond of architecture?" "Yes. 
of course," answered Ibsen. "It is in a 

the man. When Henrik was eight years 

old his parents, who had removed to a 
more commodious house, were obliged to 
leave the town on account of his father's 
faiUire. They then went to live on a small 
farm, Venstob, outside Skien. but his na- 
tive place, the "small Norwegian coast 
town" of so many of his dramas, had al- 
ready left upon his youthful mind im- 

way my own profession : it is nothing but 
proportions." Unlike Bjornson, he has 
always preferred the town, and never 
could understand why with a comfortable 
home one should rush into the country at 
the first sign of warm weather, and give 
up every-day comforts, the quiet of one's 
study and one's cafe. Ibsen the boy was 
to an unusual degree the father of Ibsen 

pressions, mostly dismal and sombre per- 
haps, which had never vanished, and of 
which several of his plays bear witness. 
Both in Skien and at Venstob Henrik 
Ibsen showed a remarkable liking for 
solitude, reading, drawing, building, con- 
juring being his favourite occupations. 
The Ibsen family lived in the country six 
years, and then went back to Skien, whe - 


Henrik had attended the "Real Skole." 
One of his schoolfellows, Dean B. Ord- 
ing, gives some interesting reminiscences 
of Ibsen in the Fadrelaiidet in 1878. 
However much there is altered, he says, 
in much he still resembles the schoolboy 
with the clever head, the power of clear 
conception, the somewhat irritable lem- 
per, with a sharp tongue, inclined to 
satire but at the same time kindly and a 
good comrade. His gift for drawing and 
painting was unmistakable. Several of 
these youthful efforts in oil and water- 
colour are still in existence. In some of 
his sketches his weakness for satire be- 
trayed itself, for instance, in the small 
draking, called "Pubhc Opinion," which 
represented a man driving a couple of 
pigs in front of him. Ibsen's love for 
and interest in art have never left him, 
but his talents in this direction were 
never really developed, although he con- 
tinued to draw and paint up to about 
i860. He was very fond of history, dis- 
playing in conversation about historical 
characters and events a surprising 
warmth and depth ; old classic history in 
particular seems to have interested him. 
His schoolfellow relates how Ibsen one 
day read aloud a description of a dream 
' had had, and which he had conveyed 

to paper, the recital producing consider- 
able effect upon the boys. 

"Once when wandering on the moun- 
tain slopes I and my comrades were over- 
taken by darkness, we were tired out, and 
had lost our way. Like Jacob in former 
days we laid ourselves down on the 
ground, using stones for our pillows. My 
comrades soon slept — myself I could not 
sleep. At last my fatigue overwhelmed 
me. In my dream an angel bent over me 
and said: 'Stand up and follow me!' 
'Whither wilt thou lead me in this dark- 
ness?" I asked. 'Come,' the angel re- 
peated, 'I will show thee a vision, the life 
of man in its reality and truth.' Then I 
followed in fear, and down we went as if 
descending some gigantic Steps until the 
mountains arched themselves above us 
like mighty domes, and outside was a 
vast city of the dead, with all the terrible 
signs and traces of death and corruption ; 
a whole world lying dead, gathered in 
under the power of death, a faded, paled, 
extinct glory. Above it all a dim, faint 
light, sombre as the light church walls 
and white crosses on graves shed over a 
grave-yard, and in infinite rows lay white 




bleached skeletons extending over the 
dark space. This sight filled me with a 
cold terror as I stood by the angel's 
side. 'Here thou seest all is corruption.' 
Then came a rustle like the first faint 
signs of an approaching storm, like a 
thousandfold groaning sigh, and it grew 
into a shrieking storm, so that the dead 
were moved, and they stretched out their 
arms toward me . . . and with a cry 
I awoke, wet with the cold dew of the 
night." This dream, says his old school- 
fellow, may assuredly be taken as an 
omen, a prophecy of Ibsen's later life as 
poet and writer — the boy's dream became 
the keynote that rings through his work. 
After his confirmation at the age of 
fifteen, Henrik Ibsen left the parental 
home; as there was no possibility of his 
going in for art, which was no doubt his 
wish at that time, he was apprenticed to 
Reimann, the apothecary at Grimstad, a 
small town with 800 inhabitants. Ibsen re- 
mained there until March, 1850, when 
Christiania became his home. Whilst at 
Grimstad the poet got the upper hand of 
the painter. Besides his first drama, 
Catilina, Ibsen wrote a number of verses, 
to do which he had to burn the midnight 
oil, as he had not only to attend to his 
work, but to his forthcoming examina- 



' =.;'^ 


lion, which was the first and necessary 
step toward the study of medicine. Still 
his writings probably took the lion's share 




of his time and Interest. Some of his 
verses at that period betray a dreamy 
melancholy resignation with his lot. In 
most of them, however, are signs herald- 
ing the Ibsen of coming years. A revolu- 
tionary spirit was rising within hiin, 
called forth and nourished by the great 

political events of 1848 and 1849. prompt- 
ing him to fervent sympathy with the op- 
pressed. This sentiment did not please 
the good folks of Grimstad, with whom 
Ibsen's relations were not of the friend- 
liest, but it was the forerunner of much 
that characterised his later work. Henrik 


From tbe palnKnif by E 



Ibsen at Grimstad was in embryo the 
Henrik Ibsen of thirty years later, and he 
was already a lonely man in more ways 
than one; Ibsen, who has since asked 
questions which it has taken the world all 
its time to answer, in Cirimstad began al- 
ready to give expression to questioning 
doubt and scepticism, at times perhaps 
coupled with what then seemed to him 
futile and useless desire. 

In No. 431 of the Christianiaposten, 
for 1849, Ibsen's first poem appeared in 
print, and his faithful friend, Ole Schule- 
rud (Ibsen, at least in his earlier years, 
had closer friends than is generally be- 
lieved) who may be said to have been the 
first to discover Ibsen, tried in vain to 
place Catilina, which play Ibsen had sent 
to Christiania. It was eventually pub- 
lished with money Schulerud managed to 
borrow, but at the time it was not a suc- 
cess from any point of view. In March, 
1850, Ibsen himself went to Christiania, 
"with a few daler in his pocket" (a daler 
is about 2s. 3d.). To begin with, he 
shared the room of his devoted friend 
Schulerud, then a student, with a small 
monthly allowance, ''insufficient for one, 
let alone two," and the two friends lived 
under distinctly "poetic" circumstances. 
After a hurried preparation at Heltberg's 
well-known "Studenterfabrik" (students' 
manufactory), Ibsen passed his first and 
I believe only academic examination in 
anything but a brilliant manner, some 
of his "characters," notably Latin, Greek, 
and mathematics, being exceptionally 
bad. It. should, however, be remembered 
that Ibsen had carried on his studies un- 
der difficulties, his mind being engrossed 
in other subjects. Whilst studying un- 
der Heltberg's auspices, Ibsen not only 
became acquainted with men like Bjorn- 
son, Vinje, and others (although Ibsen 
and Bjornson never became great friends, 
they met now and again in after life, al- 
ways showing each other much cour- 
tesy), but he soon fell in with young 
men of advanced, not to say revolution- 
ary political views, without, however, be- 
coming entangled in the difficulties which 
overtook some of his friends. He was 
not arrested as were two or three of them, 
and he continued his literary and journal- 
istic work, having made up his mind to 
abandon the study of medicine in order 
to follow a literary and public career. 
Ibsen's first efforts were published under 

the pseudonym of Brynjolf Bjarme, and 
it was in this name that Schulerud made 
for him his first agreement, selling to 
Steensballe, the publisher,, the rights of a 
first edition of four to five hundred copies 
of Kjaempehojen (The Warriors 
Mound), and a poem. The Golden Harp, 
for a sum of twenty-five species daler. 
Ibsen's present publishers in Copenhagen, 
Messrs. Hegel & Son, have so far pub- 
lished 104 editions of his works, several 
editions being of 10,000 copies or more, 
besides 16,000 copies of the dramatist's 
collected works. Brand and Peer Gynt 
are the favourites, with fifteen and twelve 
editions respectively. 

Ibsen signed a more important agree- 
ment twelve months later (November 6, 
1851) with the theatre at Bergen, accord- 
ing to which "he was to assist the theatre 
as dramatic author." This post he ob- 
tained through the influence of Ole Bull, 
the violinist. After a trip the following 
year to Copenhagen and Dresden, he re- 
newed the contract for five years, with 
an annual salary of 300 species daler, a 
period of practical theatrical work, which 
no doubt tended to develop the subtleties 
of that unique dramatic technique which 
so many playwrights have in vain tried 
to imitate. Every year a new play by 
Ibsen was produced, and Ibsen, with his 
marvellous care for details, himself de- 
signed numerous costumes, etc., many of 
these drawings being still in existence. 
Ibsen led on the whole a quiet, isolated 
life, though a frequent and welcome guest 
in one house at least, that of Dean Thore- 
scn, whose daughter, Susanna Daae 
Thoresen, afterwards became his wife. 

The five years over, Ibsen, at his own 
desire, left Bergen, of which town he 
seems to have pleasant recollections, and 
which he revisited thirty years later, in 
1885, on this occasion superintending the 
performance of Fru Ingcr til Ostraaf. 
Unlike Bjornstjeme Bjornson, Ibsen has, 
in after life, shown but little interest in 
the theatrical performances of his plays ; 
he has, in fact, comparatively rarely 
visited the theatre. 

In Christiania, Ibsen, who the follow- 
ing year paid a visit to Bergen to cele- 
brate his marriage, took over the post of 
Artistic Director of the Norwegian Thea- 
tre. A time of disappointment and 
trouble was in store for him, his mind be- 
ing filled witK bittenves!^ ^\. >^^ ^Kaxtoi 



appreciation he met with. "They would 
not even offer me a cigar," he said many 
years after, during a conversation with a 
friend in Rome^ He had much difficulty in 
making ends meet. In an application to the 
Government for a grant — March lo, 1863 
— Ibsen says straight out, **To live exclu- 
sively or principally from literary work 
is an impossibility in this country." His 
best paid work, Haemaendene, which 
took him about a year, only brought him 
227 species daler. Seeing no prospect of 
improved conditions of life in Norway, 
he contemplated migrating to Denmark. 
*'To leave my fatherland and give up a 
work which I have hitherto considered, 
and still consider, to be the real vocation 
of my life is, however, a step which to me 
is indescribably bitter." In order to avoid 
this, and as a last resource, he humbly 
asked that a proposal for a grant of 400 
sp. dl. might be laid before the "Storth- 
ing"; but this, as well as a previous ap- 
plication made in i860, was of no avail, 
and it was not until 1866 that Ibsen ob- 
tained his wish. Shortly after the publi- 
cation of Brand he wrote from Rome 
direct to King Carl XV. a document pos- 
sessed of much interest. . . . "The 
first fruits of my travels have now been 
laid before the public in the shape of my 
dramatic poem called Brand, recently 
published in Copenhagen, which has al- 
ready, a few weeks after its publication, 
attracted attention also outside the bor- 
ders of my fatherland ; but I cannot live 
on the many expressions of thanks which 
r have received, and the remuneration 
from my publisher, however liberal under 
the circumstances, is also insufficient to 
enable me to continue my travels and to 
ensure even mv most immediate future. 
It is on the advice, by telegram, from 
friends in Christiania that I take this un- 
usual step, applying direct to your Ma- 
jesty. ... It is not for a livelihood 
free from trouble that I am here fighting, 
but for that life's work which I steadfast- 
ly believe and know God has laid upon 
me — the life's work which to me appears 
the most important and most necessary in 
Norway; to awaken the people and call 
forth great thoughts within them. . . . 
My King is therefore my only and my 
last hope. It rests with your Majesty 
whether I must be silent and bow under 
the bitterest self-denial which can befall 
a human soul, that of haying to abandon 

my life's work, having to yield when I 
know that I have been given the weapons 
of the mind for fighting, a self-denial 
tenfold more bitter because I have never 
vielded to this dav." . . . 

This manly and straightforward appeal 
was backed up in various ways by friends 
at home, who forwarded a petition to the 
"Storthing." The matter was pushed 
forward, and on May 12, 1866, the Legis- 
lature of his country almost unanimously 
granted Ibsen the asked for "Digtergage** 
(Poet's salary). 

In the meantime Ibsen was beset with 
troubles of various kinds in Christiania. 
His mind was slow in becoming matured 
and his powers in assuming definite 
shape. He exercised then, as always, an 
almost excessive self-criticism. As one 
of his biographers says, "Ibsen was one 
of those individuals whom outward cir- 
cumstances, even want, could hardly 
drive to any productiveness beyond the 
temporary impulse of inspiration." No 
one can have a greater reverence for his 
work ; no one has given, with more earn- 
est zeal, his whole life to the cause of his 
art. One of his friends said of him that 
he was apparently always working, in the 
house and out, at meals, during his walks, 
and, probably not least, at his cafe, where 
his personal friends were not in the habit 
of disturbing him even by saluting him. 
Besides, Ibsen has himself said that he 
did not go to a cafe to drink beer (or 
pjolter), he went to work, to "digte," in 
the sweat of his brow. When Ibsen's 
mind was brooding over a new work he 
became more secluded than ever, his sus- 
ceptibility increased, he was entirely ab- 
sorbed in himself, the smallest trifle dis- 
tracted him. Ibsen simply lived with his 
characters, became familiar with them, 
viewed them from every side over and 
over again; hence their absolute perfec- 
tion. Not only was his manuscript fault- 
less, without a blot or correction, but 
every sentence, every word had been tried 
in the golden balance of his genius. A 
friend once asked Ibsen how he came to 
call the heroine of A Doll's House Nora. 
"You know," answered Ibsen, confident- 
ly, "that she was really called Leonore, 
but she was the pet of the family and 
they all called her Nora !" 

In spite of many bitter memories, 
which he could not entirely shake off, a 
new life began for Ibsen when he set out 



from Christiania, in the spring of 1864, 
**having broken his chains," as he himself 
said, en route for the Eternal City, where 
in the autumn he was joined by his wife 
and child. He soon learned to love 
Rome, revelled in its classic surround- 
ings and enjoyed the companionship of 
kindred spirits. This visit to Rome in- 
augurated a protracted residence abroad. 
It is almost a matter of surprise that 
Ibsen, a lover of extreme regularity in 
habits, changed his abode so often during 
twenty-seven years, now residing in 
Rome, now in Dresden, now in Munich, 
living nearly all the time in furnished 

In Rome a classic motif loomed in his 
mind, but it was allowed to remain in 
abeyance for several years, a fact the 
world has no reason to regret, for instead 
he wrote Brand, published in 1866, and 
Peer Gynt, published in 1867. These two 
dramas literally came as a revelation. The 
Government grant, already referred to, 
the success firstof Brand and then of Peer 
Gynt, brought, in the nick of time, that 
turn of the tide of which Ibsen was then 
so badly in need. 

Ibsen had now become a famous man, 
and received in Stockholm his first Order 
from the King's own hands. He was one 
of the party of eighty-six celebrities who 
set out from Marseilles as official guests 
on board the Moetis at the opening of the 
Suez Canal — a pagent which made a con- 
siderable impression on him. Of this trip 
to Egypt and up the Nile, *'this six to 
seven weeks' dream," Ibsen has given a 
pithy description in his delightful "bal- 
loon letter" to a Swedish lady (Dresden, 
December, 1870), which simply teems 
with Ibsen sentiment and confessions, 
playfully set forth, but seriously enough 
meant. Beyond the Bismarck era he sees 
the world, the world that "hungers for 
beauty," steering to a prelude of hymns 
and chorales, in the new dawn, toward 
the Land of Promise. In the meantime, 
he takes refuge in his "room," for he dis- 
likes the mob, prefers not to be splashed 
by the dirt of the street, awaiting the ful- 
ness of time, daintily-gloved, and in fes- 
tive attire — ^a humorous but admirably 
telling snapshot of himself. 

At this time Ibsen was greatly affected 
by the events of the day; his mind re- 
belled against the brutal military spirit 
of Prussia. In a letter to a friend he 

wrote : "The revolt of the human race is 
the main thing." Ibsen's letters, of 
which a selection will ere long be given to 
the world, will be found to possess a 
wealth of brilliant and original thoughts 
and sayings. In another letter about the 
same period he says: "Friends are an 
expensive luxury, and when one invests 
one's capital in a call and a mission in this 
life, one cannot afford to keep friends. 
The expensive part is not what one does 
for them, but what one, out of considera- 
tion for them, leaves undone. Many 
mental germs are crippled thereby. I 
have been through it, and therefore 1 
have behind me several years during 
which I did not succeed in becoming my- 

• • 

The following year, 1871, Ibsen began 
writing Julian, which was published in 
the autumn of 1873. This is his most 
voluminous work, fascinating, but diffi- 
cult to fathom in its mystic symbolism. 
Some of Ibsen's other works have at 
times been mentioned as those upon 
which he set the greatest store, but in a 
conversation, a few years ago, Ibsen dis- 
tinctly stated that he looked upon Julian 
as his principal drama, and it is not with- 
out interest to notice that it is the only 
work to which he referred in his two 
best-known public speeches, the one to 
the students in Christiania on September 
10, 1874, and the speech he delivered at 
the Grand Hotel in Stockholm on Sep- 
tember 24, 1887. The first part of Julian 
has recently been produced with much 
effect, both in Norway and Sweden. 

In the year 1874 Henrik Ibsen visited 
Norway after an absence of ten years, 
ten years which had revolutionised not 
only his circumstances but also his coun- 
try's estimation of her now famous son. 
In answer to an ovation the students ac- 
corded him, Ibsen made a speech, marked 
by a manly, outspoken candour. He said 
that although he had felt it had become a 
necessity for him to see his country again, 
yet he had had serious doubts and mis- 
givings as to the manner in which his 
countrymen would receive him. His 
books had met with an honourable re- 
ception, but he was uncertain as to his 
personal relations with his countrymen. 
It was no use denying that there had been 
discord, of a double nature as far as he 
could see. People thought that he had 
viewed his personal and private cvtoaxci- 



stances in the old country with unwar- 
rantable bitterness, and, secondly, it had 
been laid at his door that he had attacked 
things Norwegian which many thought 
did not by any means deserve being 
treated with scorn. He did not think that 
he could turn that happy and honourable 
day to better account than by making a 
confession. He had never made his pri- 
vate circumstances the immediate subject 
of any of his work, they had not weighed 
very heavily uf)on him, and as for his 
writings, it had been slow in dawning 
upon him that to write was principally to 
see, and that onlv what has been lived 
through can be seen by the writer and re- 
ceived by the reader. And he had written 
not only about what might be said to 
stand higher than his everyday self, but 
he had also written about the reverse, 
about that which to the inner eye ap- 
peared like the residue of one's own be- 
ing. Writing had in this case been to 
him like a bath from which he had 
emerged purified, sounder, freer. . . . 
After some months' stay in Dresden, 
Ibsen, in the spring of 1875, took up his 
residence in Munich, where he spent a 
couple of quiet years, for the summer 
months going to Berchtesgaden in the 
Tyrol, of which place he appears to have 
grown fond. In 1877 he proceeded to 
Sweden in order to receive on the occa- 
sion of the 400th anniversary of the an- 
cient University of Upsala the degree of 
Honorary Doctor of Philosophy, being 
with much solemnity adorned with the 
laurel wreath. Having wintered in 
Rome, Ibsen spent the summer of 1879 
at Amalfi, where he wrote A Dolls House 
— presumably the one of his dramas 
which within the shortest time attracted 
the most universal attention, nowhere 
more so than in Copenhagen, then al- 
ready for more than a decade the ac- 
knowledged literary headquarters of 
Henrik Ibsen. Two years later Ghosts, 
which Ibsen wrote on the borders of the 
Bay of Naples, appeared, likewise caus- 
ing a tremendous stir, and in many quar- 
ters considerable indignation. 

During the following years Ibsen 
changed his place of residence several 
times, gravitating between Rome and 
Munich, often spending the summer in 
the Tyrol, where he met both Bjornson, 
after an interval of twenty years, and 
Jonas Lie. 

After a second visit to Norway in 1885, 
Ibsen in the autumn again went to live in 
Munich, where he was an extremelv well- 
known figure, and where he spent some 
happy years, not un frequently associating 
with Northern or German confreres. 

Ibsen, like Bjornson, has used living 
models for his dramas — he said it was as 
necessary for him as for a painter or a 
sculptor — but whilst in some of the lat- 
ter's plays they are almost transparently 
recognizable, Ibsen's models have first 
passed through a purging or moulding 
process from which they have emerged 
in accordance with the dramatist's ideals. 

In the summer of 1887 Ibsen spent 
two or three months at the Danish water- 
ing-place, Soeby, on the east coast of Jut- 
land, w^here he "discovered the sea" — 
rather late in the day considering that he 
is a son of Norway's "ocean-girded 
shores." At a dinner-party at the Hegel's 
he subsequently spoke of this wonder that 
had come to him, pointing out the fact 
that Norway had "a profusion of stones," 
but Denmark had given him the free and 
sunny sea ; now he wanted friendship and 
outstretched hands. 

From Denmark Ibsen went to Stock- 
holm, and at a great fete given in his 
honour at the Grand Hotel, September 
24, 1887, he made a remarkable speech. 
He said that he believed in evolution, also 
in the domain of the mind. He thought 
the time was soon coming when political 
and social ideas would cease to exist in 
their present form, and from them would 
emanate a unity, having within itself the 
conditions of happiness for the human 
race. He thought poetry and philosophy 
and religion would blend into a new life- 
fMDwer, of which those now living could 
have no clear conception. He had on 
several occasions been told that he was a 
pessimist, and so he was, inasmuch as he 
did not believe in the eternity of human 
ideals. But he was also an optimist, in- 
asmuch as he believed that ideals have the 
power to propagate and develop, tending 
toward "the Third Kingdom" spoken of 
in Julian, He drank to the health of that 
which was to come. 

From Germany Ibsen in the year 1891 
went to live in Christiania, which town 
has been his home ever since. The series 
of his wonderful dramas, for a long time 
appearing with the utmost regularity 
every second year, was in the year 1899 



brought to what must be called an appro- 
priate conclusion by the Epilogue: 
"When We Dead Awaken/* The seven- 
tieth birthday of the great master gauged 
in the most convincing manner the depth 
and the breadth of his world-wide fame. 
Unfortunately the seventv-fifth anniver- 
sary of Henrik Ibsen's birth had to be 
passed in enforced quiet, he having for 
the last two years been more or less of an 
invalid. He still drives out occasionally, 

but is only rarely able to see anyone. He 
has had the great satisfaction of seeing 
his only child. Dr. Siguard Ibsen, who is 
married to Bergliot, the eldest daughter 
of Bjornstjerne Bjornson, successfully 
embarked upon what bids fair to become 
a brilliant career. Dr. Siguard Ibsen is 
now Norwegian Councillor of State in 
Stockholm, and undoubtedly destined to 
play a prominent part in Norwegian 
politics. Jessie Brochner. 


THOSE who have watched the 
intellectual tendencies of the 
times cannot but be impressed 
with the growing interest 
taken in what has hitherto been popular- 
ly deemed the most unprofitable of sci- 
ences — psychology. And, indeed, it could 
not be said until within recent years that 
psychology as a science presented much 
inviting to the lay mind. Mainly meta- 
physical in character, on the one side 
hopelessly speculative, and on the other 
coldly analytical of the contents of the 
individual consciousness, it is not sur- 
prising that psycholog>' should have 
fallen into disrepute and have been aban- 
doned to philosophers who studied it 
only as an adjunct to the formation or 
reenforcement of metaphysical and theo- 
logical systems. Within the past half 
century, however, there has been a mar- 
vellous shaking of the dry bones, and 
what was once idly idealistic in principle 
and tone has become splendidly realistic 
— ^thanks to the belated appreciation of 
the fact that psychology as a science is 
impossible unless the mutual growth and 
interrelation of mind and body be taken 
into account. From this appreciation 
sprang into being what is properly 
termed the "new" psychology, essential- 
ly empirical, being based upon actual 
experiment. By psychological experi- 
ment is meant, to quote from Prof. 
James Mark Baldwin, himself the most 

indefatigable of American experimental 
psychologists, "experiment on the ner- 
vous system with the accompanying 
modifications it occasions in conscious- 
ness." Physiology thus becomes the 
handmaiden of psychology, or, rather, 
physiology and psychology work hand 
in hand to mutual advantage. 

The most obvious result that has been 
obtained by this revolution in psycho- 
logical method — involving as it has an 
almost completed divorce between meta- 
physics and psychology, so far as pro- 
cedure is concerned — has been the ap- 
plication of the facts of psychology to 
everyday life. We see this illustrated at 
every street corner, for the flaring ad- 
vertising placards and the gaudy posters 
are but concrete examples of the applica- 
tion of a psychological fact now better 
understood than ever before, viz.: that 
not only must attention be secured but 
interest aroused suflicient to hold the 
attention until it develops into a mental 
habit. There is, too, the psychology of 
the printed page, as it has been termed 
by an able writer, whereby the astute 
publisher, making a wise choice of type, 
paper, margin, and so forth, produces a 
book that will, apart from any considera- 
tion of the nature of its contents, make 
a successful appeal to the mind through 
the eye. These are but two instances 
out of many evidencing what may be 
styled the "popularisation" ot ^\^c\- 



ogy. But where the new psychology has 
scored its distinctive triumphs is in the 
service it has already rendered and the 
increased service it promises to render 
to paedagogy, putting an end for all time 
to the moot question of the possibility of 
placing education on a truly scientific 

The teachers of the United States 
recognise the educative function of psy- 
chology more clearly perhaps than do 
the teachers of any other country, al- 
though it is to Germany that we are in- 
debted for what may be deemed the first 
real contribution of empirical psychology 
to educational methods. The kindergar- 
ten idea which has developed wonder- 
fully since its introduction by Froebel, 
is but the application in the schoolroom 
of the psychological factor of interest, 
and the direction of the child's "play ac- 
tivities'' in a way that will lead to atten- 
tion, concentration of thought, and the 
exercise of a steady volition. But even 
in this country, the value of psychology 
as an adjunct to paedagogy is not as yet 
fully realised. For example, there is still 
too much inclination to "force" the 
youthful mind; true, the school day is, 
as a rule, shorter than it was formerly, 
but this is, unfortunately, too often more 
than counterbalanced bv an excessive 
amount of homework. Yet another in- 
stance of imperfect recognition of the 
lessons taught by psychology is the de- 
sire in certain quarters to shorten the 
college course. 

As I write, there He upon my study 
table three little volumes * wherein will 
be found much of value to teachers de- 
sirous of acquainting themselves with the 
results of recent psychological research. 
Of the three. Professor Royce's work 
will undoubtedly be found most directly 
useful, although the careful exposition of 
experimental work set forth by Pro- 

^ Psychology and Common Life. A Survey 
of the Present Results of Psychical Research 
with Special Reference to Their Bearings upon 
the Interests of Everyday Life. By Frank 
Sargent Hoffman, Ph.D., New York: G. P. 
Putnam's Sons. 

Outlines of Psychology. An Elementary 
Treatise with Some Practical Applications. By 
Josiah Royce, Ph.D., LL.D., New York: The 
Macmillan Company. 

Experimental Psychology and Its Bearing 
Upon Culture. By George Malcolm Stratton, 
M.A., Yale ; Ph.D., Leipzig. New York : The 
Macmillan Company. 

fessor Stratton, and Professor Hoffman's 
easy and direct statement of the appli- 
cation of psychology to the facts of 
everyday life, contain educational sug- 
gestions that will be welcomed by every 
teacher alive to the interests of the 
young. Those who are as yet unfamiliar 
with the methods of psychology would 
do well to peruse Professor Hoffman's 
work first, perhaps prefacing the other 
two by obtaining at least a nodding ac- 
quaintance with Professors Baldwin, 
James, and Ladd, foremost among the 
American exponents of latter-day psy- 
chology. From a strictly paedagogical 
standpoint, however, the teacher need 
not go beyond Professor Royce, for in 
this, his latest volume, we find a brilliant 
illumination of the new theories of paed- 
agogy in behalf of which such thinkers 
as Professors Baldwin and James have 
long been raising their voices. Professor 
Royce has, in short, rendered valuable 
service in pointing out how best the 
minds of the young may be developed, 
and thus has taken a long step in the 
direction of formulating an exact science 
of education. 

True, he has made an appeal to physi- 
ology which IS likely to be resented by 
those who deprecate the growing tend- 
ency of psychology to rely more and 
more upon physical experimentation, and 
he adopts a terminology which may pro- 
voke even the physico-psychologists, tfieir 
resentment not being lessened by his re- 
fusal to follow the old and time-honored 
cleavage of feeling, intellect, and will. 
But with the controversial side of the 
volume teachers need not concern them- 
selves. What they require is to be in- 
formed how their usefulness may be 
increased, and almost every page of Pro- 
fessor Royce's volume is pregnant with 
suggestion in this regard. One of the 
most important points upon which he 
lays stress, a point now widely recog- 
nised, is the fact that children learn 
much by imitation, which does not mean 
the slavish imitation of the monkey or 
the parrot, but an imitation which, being 
bom of suggestion, leads to mental in- 
itiative. Hence the importance of the 
play of childhood and the necessity of 
giving the young plenty of opportunity 
to develop in recreation any latent talent 
they may possess. Professor Stratton 
also emphasises the function of imitation 



as a factor in education, drawing atten- 
tion to the fact that it is important that 
the teacher shall furnish "a pattern of 
right interests and right appreciation of 
things, so that like attitudes of mind shall 
be stimulated in the child. . . . The 
teacher may possess most approved peda- 
gogical devices, and be thoroughly mas- 
ter of the subject to be taught; but if 
at bottom he be bored by his work noth- 
ing will quite prevent the child from 
being insensibly affected in the same 
way. And, on the other hand, it is due 
to the direct contagion of states of mind 
that the enthusiast, ill-equipped and 
clumsy though he may be, is often so 
successful in dealing with the young." 

Here we come to the heart of the 
whole matter — the recognition of per- 
sonality. Never has such a light been 
shed upon human personality as has 
been the case since the experimentalists 
began to measure the contents of con- 
sciousness. Indeed, some sober thinkers 
incline to the opinion that the new psy- 
chology will end by making a fetich of 
personality, and point with alarm to what 
they term the pseudo-psychology of the 
subconscious mind, holding that if there 
be states of mind and mental processes 
which elude the most rigid observation 
the basic principles of psychology as the 
science of the phenomena of the human 
mind will be irremediably shattered. So 
far as psedagogy is concerned this fear 
is beside the mark. What vitally inter- 
ests paedagogy is the light which the new 
psychology casts upon the variations of 
the raw material which teachers have 
to mold. The study of hallucinations, 
for example, may be carried to an ex- 
treme in the field commonly known as 
"psychical research,'' but for paedagogy 
it becomes of far-reaching importance 
since, as Professor Hoffman says, chil- 
dren are frequently punished for lying 
when no He is intended, sense perception 
and memory having sadly gone astray. 
That the variations and oddities of mem- 
ory are legion has been amply shown by 
the new psychology. Hence the neces- 
sity of the teacher studying the person- 
ality of the pupil. Professor Stratton 
justly says: 

"How many children have been ac- 
counted stupid simply because no one 
appreciated the peculiar difficulties under 
which they worked! They were expected 

to retain materials that had no affinity 
for their particular constitution. And 
their failure was counted a moral wrong, 
laid at the door of the will or of inat- 
tention, when in reality the difficulty was 
not there at all. The present interest in 
child study in the schools has already 
prepared the way for a more intelligent 
and sympathetic treatment of these per- 
sonal diff^t-ences. To a teacher interested 
in psychology, not as a bookish doctrine, 
but as a thing of flesh and blood, a child 
who cannot learn to spell should be re- 
garded as a rare and inviting individual 
who may not be dismissed until he has 
yielded up the secret of his defective 

The more thoroughly teachers study 
personality the better will they appreciate 
the tnith of the statement that there is 
something faulty in the education which 
does not develop the power of attention. 
The proper development of this power 
largely depends, as empirical psychology 
has shown, upon the teacher's under- 
standing of the operation of the law of 
assimilation. The teacher must discover, 
to quote again from Professor Hoffman : 
"Some means of awakening interest by 
linking the present task with something 
in the child's past experience." On the 
other hand, there should not be an undue 
repetition of old illustrations, for the 
attention will as readily wander from 
such as it will reject the altogether novel 
in which it can discover no possible like- 
ness to anything it has already experi- 

Again, it must be remembered that at- 
tention, like all other mental powers, has 
a physical basis and that overwork, in- 
volving too great a flow of blood to the 
brain, is almost always certain to have 
a degenerating effect upon the power of 
attention. It is the recognition of this 
that has revolutionised paedagogy, but, as 
has been suggested above, the recogni- 
tion can only be complete when home- 
work is so adjusted that the child will 
not have to toil miserably durine^ hours 
which should be spent in health-eiving 
recreation. It is not enough to shorten 
the recitations themselves, to give fre- 
ouent recesses, and to diversify subjects ; 
the teacher must dulv consider the needs 
of the child away from as well as at 

It IS a heavy re&ipoTO&yX\V3 ^^aN- ^xcw- 



pirical psychology would lay upon teach- 
ers. Properly to direct the young calls, 
in this view of the case, for far more 
than a lively interest. It demands a keen 
insight into the idiosyncrasies and varia- 
tions of personality, the ahility to stimu- 
late and hold attention, to arouse and 
guide latent talents, and, above all, the 
constant determination that, since the 
law of imitation is particularly applicable 
in earlv vouth, the children shall have as 

a pattern a life of rectitude and moral 
strength. One of the new psychology's 
latest words, in reality an echo from a 
far distant past, is that character has 
more to do with intellect than is gener- 
ally thought to be the case. How search- 
ing and how frequent, therefore, should 
be the self -examinations of those whose 
mission it is to mold the minds of the 


//. Addhxgton Bruce, 


Here is a plot for a story. All per- 
sons desiring to do so may use it without 
further permission. I only ask that they 
send me copies of their finished produc- 
tions, that I may sit up nights and com- 
pare them. 

One day a loved and loving suburban 
wife took it into her foolish head that she 
would go away and leave her happy home 
just so as to find out whether her hus- 
band reallv loved her or not, so she wrote 
a note to him which ran as follows : 

Dear George: 

Do not seek to follow me or to guess why I 
have decided to leave you. When you get this 
I shall be, oh! so far away. Forgive me, 
George. I have loved you more than once. 
Do not ask me if I still love you, and do not 
attempt to find me. 

Yours with many tears — Oh. George, be 
good to little Georgie, and tell Ann we'll have 
bluefish to-morrow instead of haddock — the 
last haddock we had was so dry. 

Good-by and God bless you. 

Your naughty wife. 


The letter written, she left town. 

Well, George came home from busi- 
ness, and the first thing he did was to 
call out : "Where's the best woman in the 
world?" Generally when he said that 
there would come a very sweet voice from 
the parlour or the bedroom or the library, 
saying: "Here I am, you nicest man on 
the block," and a very pretty woman 
would come running out to greet him 
with a kiss. This sort of thing had been 
going on for nine years, with no one able 
to stop it. 

But to-night, when George asked 
where the best woman in the world was. 

the cook came out of the kitchen and 
said, "Did you call, sir?" but no wife 
came flying from any room in the house. 

And then George became alarmed at 
once and expected to find his wife lying 
under the bed poisoned, or else shot in 
the pantry, or hanging to the cellar beam. 
But he did not find her in any of those 
modes of death, whereat he was just a 
little disappointed, our minds bel.*g such 
queer affairs that they long for sensations 
even when our entire future happiness 
is involved. 

But George loved his wife too ardently 
to have more than a tenth of a second's 
disappointment at not finding her body, 
and he went out into the street and met 
his son Georgie returning from dancing- 
class and he asked him if he had seen 
his mother, and Georgie had not ; and 
then there was a panic right away, for 
Mrs. George had always been so method- 
ical in her habits that to have her absent 
from home at six o'clock without a word 
of explanation meant death and disaster. 

And the two Georges came home wail- 
ing, and the elder George went up to his 
bedroom and there he found the foolish 
letter from his wife. And then his grief 
was unbounded. If he had been a man 
of action he would have gone out and set 
detectives to work, but as he was more 
of a Hamlet than an Othello, he went into 
the library and wailed, and then he wailed 
awhile in the dining-room, and then he 
went to bed and tossed for a few hours. 
If Stella could have seen him then she 
would have had no doubt of his love. 

But Stella was at that moment wishing 



that she had not taken the night boat to 
Fall River, because it did not get there 
fast enough, and she wanted to take the 
next train and get back to the Long 
Island home in which she knew that 
George was bewailing his loss. If he 
wasn't bemoaning it she would go away 
for good, as she did not care for a loveless 

All night long George either tossed or 
else moaned and walked the floor and 
kept little George from sleeping by tell- 
ing him what a good woman his mother 
had been; and Georgie asked a great 
many times why mamma had gone away, 
if she was good, his small but logical 
mind seeing no good in the desertion of 
a husband by a wife. But at times he, 
too, fell to sobbing, because he loved his 
mother dearly and wanted to kiss her, 
and supposed that she had been run over 
in her efforts to get away from them. 

The next morning George came down 
to breakfast still looking sad and sorrow^ 
ful, and he did not eat a mouthful. 
Georgie ate a good deal, to the distress 
of his father, who attributed it to callous- 
ness when it should have been attributed 
to healthy appetite. 

And now all the while Stella was be- 
ing borne home on a train that did not 
fly fast enough to suit her. Hurry, 
Stella, hurry, for George looks like the 
monument of Sorrow, and it will do your 
loving heart good to see his grief. 

It was about two o'clock in the after- 
noon when Stella struck the next village 
to the one in which she lived, and set out 
on foot to go to her home and see with 
her own eyes whether George loved her 
or not. 

George, dear George, keep on crying, 
for Stella is only a quarter of an hour 
away, and so much depends upon your 
continuance in sorrow. 

She is now not two minutes away, and 
George is still swaying and saying to lit- 
tle George: "Your mother is the best 
mother you ever had," which was slightly 
redundant, and seemed so to the boy, who 
replied that she was his only mother and 
that he wanted her to come back. 

Oh, what was it that moved George to 
dry his tears, and what was it that put it 
into the heart of the little boy to repeat a 
joke that he had heard at dancing-school 
the day before? It is really funny, for 
young George has a sense of humour, and 

it sounds doubly funny coming from the 
lips of a small boy at such a sad time. 
Perhaps, too, Stella's husband is slightly 
hysterical. At any rate, he yields to 
laughter just as Stella tiptoes up the ver- 
anda and looks in at the library window. 

She sees the husband that she deserted 
laughing gaily at some drollery of the 
little George; she interprets it to mean 
that all night long George has been 
laughing at having been rid of an en- 
cumbrance, and quite noiselessly, with an 
Enoch Arden tread in her faithless com- 
mon-sense shoes, she leaves her home and 
goes forth into the world alone forever — 

And in a moment George ceases his 
laughter and takes up his sorrow again, 
and through the long night of his after 
life joy is a stranger to him. 

This, then, is the plot that I give to the 
world. Hawthorne, who wrote IVake- 
field for us, could have taken this plot 
and done even more with it than I have 
done. He would have pictured the re- 
morse of the wife alone on the Sound 
steamer with her guilty conscience; he 
would have made George reproach him- 
self for a thousand things he might have 
done for his wife and had not done; he 
would have made the characters seem like 
figures in a dream, and yet they would 
have stayed with us — particularly we who 
have inherited New England consciences. 

George Ade — to come down to the 
moderns — would have printed the story 
in the form of a fable with a generous 
use of capitals, and would have forced us 
to laugh at the human nature hiding be- 
hind the capitals. His keen eye would 
have picked out foibles in both George 
and Stella that have passed unnoticed by 

And there is Dooley. He would have 
told Mr. McKenna(?) the tale as a bit 
of Archey Road gossip, and he would 
have shown us what a cheap type of hus- 
band "Jarge" was and how ultra-roman- 
tic and matineeish Stella was. 

Elisabeth Stuart Phelps Ward — what 
different kinds of people are lumped un- 
der the head of "writers"— Elisabeth Stu- 
art Phelps Ward would have made 
Mama — I should say Stella— write a 
good many notes and pin them every- 
where so that George would hear the 
dreadful news as soon and as often as 

Josephine Dodge Daskam would have 



elaborated the part of the child, and 
would have made him interestingly preco- 
cious and her own style scintillatingly 
brilliant. I think, too, that her sense of 
humour would have caused her to get in 
some slaps at George for being such a 
helpless individual as to sit at home cry- 
ing when there were detectives and tele- 
phones to be had for the using. 

Henry James would have made a three- 
volume novel out of the plot without in- 
troducing a single new incident. He 
would have involved himself and the 
reader and the characters in labvrinthine 
twists of tortuous and mazy language, 
dallying with a sentence for an uncon- 
scionable time and making the reader 
turn the page back half a dozen times to 
commit to memory the first part in order 
to get at the gist of the remainder, but 
James would not have cared to better the 

If Ibsen had made a play of it he would 
have diseased Stella and deformed the 
boy, and crippled George so that he could 
not go in search of his errant wife; and 
he would have made the little George, 
through pre-natal influence, utter the 
crucial words on which would hinge the 
plot, and he would have made his charac- 
ters utter reams of such talk as we hear 
every day of our lives at home and in the 
street, but do not care to hear upon the 
stage — and every one would have said: 
"What a powerful plot, but how mor- 
bid !" 

I don't pretend to be able to forecast 
what ^Cipling would have made of it, but 
at all events it would have been readable 
and would have made his admirers say, 
"Kipling strikes twelve every time," 
while his detractors of to-day (who were 
his admirers just after he recovered from 
his sickness) would have said, "Kipling 
is falling off. He isn't the man he was," 
which would be in the nature of self-reve- 
latipn, and if the critic also happened also 
to be a writer, his remark might safely 
be laid to enw. 

And what if Marie Twain had taken it? 
If he had approached it in his melodra- 
matic style he would have spoiled it, but 
if he had written it in the manner that 
gave us his story of Oliver Cromwell and 
the little child, it would have been a mas- 
terpiece, and that, too, without any need 

of humour. There is many a humourist 
who can be funny at the right time, but 
it takes a prince of humourists to refrain 
from being funny and yet never become 
for a moment unconsciously funny. The 
man who can throw off the motley and 
play a serious part without reminding 
you of laughter, he is a humourist in- 
deed, for he knows not only what will 
make you laugh zvitJi him, but also what 
might make you laugh at him. 

Howells would have made George so 
convincingly natural that you would have 
loved him for his everydayness. But I 
think that Howell s*s sense of probability 
would have caused him to make Stella 
go into the house to find out what on 
earth her husband could be laughing at 
so soon in the game, and the story would 
have ended in tears, followed by merry- 

I wish Howells had written it, because 
the conversations would have been so de- 
lightful. There's a man who can write 
the kind of talk you hear every day, with 
just enough tincture of Howells in it to 
make it pleasant in large doses. He may 
think he's photographic, but after all he 
is the lens through which he takes his 
picture, and he is twice as natural as life ; 
while Ibsen, is only just as natural, and 
therefore not natural enough. 

If Maurice Hewlett had taken my plot 
he would have set it back a half-dozen 
centuries and made you doubtful whether 
it was laid in England or France, and 
then he would have soaked it with at- 
mosphere and wreathed it with style, and 
would have refused to add a glossary — 
and he undoubtedly would have added a 
little touch of spice by making Stella run 
away with Count Planqon de Maurel, and 
would have made George, or Georges, 
a fiery crusader who would have noted 
his wife's flight from the topmost turret 
of his tower, and would have spitted 
Count PlanQon in less time than it takes 
to tell it — unless one is a Henry James — 
and that would have spoiled my innocent 
plot. So I'm glad he didn't take it, al- 
though I dare say I would have read 
what he wrote just for the sake of the 
style. My plot and his style. Heavens, 
what an opportunity for some one ! 

Charles Battell Loomis. 


By George Barr McCutcheon 



He had told Celeste that he would be 
away from home over one night and she 
was alarmed when he did not return 
on the second night after his depar- 
ture. On the third day she could not 
shut out the picture of his despondent 
face. When she heard his footsteps in 
the lower hall that afternoon her heart 
gave a great bound of relief, and all his 
plans went scattering before her joyous 

He entered the house steeled to tell 
her, but his resolution wavered, and with 
the words on his tongue's end he felt 
them forced back by her kisses. He let 
himself procrastinate; every vestige of 
courage vanished before this attack of 
love and confidence. If his response to 
her welcome was lifeless and cold, she 
did not complain; if he seemed dis- 
traught she overlooked it in the joy of 
having her apprehensions swept away. 

"Do you know, dear, I was beginning 
to fear you had been lost in the snow 
storm and that I should have to send St. 
Bernard dogs out to find you,'* she said 
gayly, as she drew him into the big chair 
before the grate and climbed cosily upon 
the arm beside him. 

"God, I can't tell her now," he was 
groaning to himself. "I can't break her 
heart to-day — not to-day." 

"Was it so warm and pleasant in Mil- 
waukee that you couldn't tear yourself 
away?" she went on, her hand caressing 
his hair. 

"Where? Mil — oh, yes, Milwaukee," 
he stammered, recalling that he had told 
her he was going there on business. 
"No; it was beastly; I had to stay a day 
longer than I expected." 

"Tell me all about it," she said. "Did 
everything turn out as good as you 
hoped? Will he take the pictures?" 

He was unable to reply at once. In- 
deed It was necessarv for him to remem- 
ber just what excuse he had given her 

for going to Milwaukee. Slowly it came 
back to him. Without lifting his guilty 
eyes from the coals, he told her that 
Mr. Evans had not given him the order 
for the five paintings until he had con- 
sulted his partner, who was delayed in 
returning from St. Paul. On the part- 
ner's return (here Jud's twisted heart 
leaped at a fresh inspiration) the firm 
promptly agreed to accept all of his paint- 
ings and contracted for others to be fin- 
ished within a very short space of time. 

"Isn't that a very short time in which 
to do the work, Jud?" she inquired anx- 
iously. A cunning thought had prompted 
his statement; in it he saw the respite 
that might be needed. The task of sup- 
plying the fictitious order would com- 
mand his closest thought and energy, 
and, by preventing the trip to Florida, 
would give him a longer time in which to 
make ready for the trial at hand. He 
saw that he would lack the immediate 
courage to tell her, and that it would 
require hours and days of torture to 
bring him to the task. 

"It means that I'll have to give up the 
Florida trip," he said. 

"Oh, no, Jud. Let the old pictures go! 
Can't they wait? You must go to Flor- 
ida. It will do you so much good, and 
my heart is so set on it." 

A new thought struck him sharply and 
his spirits leaped upward. "You could 
go without me, Celeste. There's no rea- 
son why you should give up the pleasure 
because I have to — " 

"Dudley Sherrod," she interrupted 
decisively, "you are hateful. I will not 
go a step without you. It is you who 
need the rest and the change. Write to 
Mr. Evans this afternoon and tell him 
you cannot do the pictures until next 

"I can't do that. dear. They must be 
done at once," he said. 

"But von must have the two months in 
Florida," she persisted in troubled tones. 
"Why. dear, I have made preparations to 
leave on Saturday and this is Thursday. 



Won't you please, for my sake, give up 
the pictures?'* 

"Impossible," he said firmly, rising 
suddenly. He pressed her hand softly 
and passed from the room, afraid to look 
back into her eyes. She sat perfectly still 
for many minutes, the puzzled expression 
deepening in her eyes. 

"To-morrow I will tell her all," he 
vowed, as he paced the floor of his stu- 
dio. The memory of the distressed look 
in her eyes bore him down. He knew 
that he could not endure the sight of pro- 
longed pain in those loving eyes, and 
what little wisdom he had at his com- 
mand told him that to end the suspense 
quickly was the most charitable thing 
to do. "To-morrow, to-morrow," he re- 
peated feverishly. He groaned aloud 
with loathing for himself and shame of 
what the morrow was to bring. "I love 
her. How can I teil her that she is not 
my wife? How can I tell her that I 
deceived her deliberately? And what 
will she say, what will she do? Good 
God, what is to be the end of it? Will 
she submit or will she cry for the ven- 
geance that is justly hers?" 

For the first time the agony of this 
question was beyond his power of suffer- 
ing. His mind refused to consider it. 
He was dulled; he felt nothing — and 
presently there was a relief in feeling 
nothing. Up to that time his sensitive 
nature had responded to every grief. Of 
a sudden his mind refused grief ; and the 
inspiration came to him to support that 
refusal. He shut out thoughts of Ce- 
leste, and let himself look forward to the 
happiness with Justine and his boy. 

The next day he faltered in his deter- 
mination to tell Celeste and the day after 
it was the same. He could not stand 
before her and look into her eyes and 
tell her. He was conscious of the fact 
that her troubled gaze was following 
him wherever he moved, that she seemed 
to be reading his thoughts. He grew 
more apathetic under the scrutiny. He 
took to good food as a refuge from his 
thoughts, and surprised her by asking for 
dainty dishes. He found some poetry, 
careless with fatalism, and instantly be- 
came a fatalist. He would let affairs 
take their course. The yearning for Jus- 
ine dulled a little. 

one day, entering his studio, ex- 

pecting to find him at work, she was 
amazed to see him with a picture in his 
hand. He was looking at it eagerly. 
She could see the face. It was Justine 

Justine Van! The girl of the mead- 
ow ; the sweetheart of the old days ! The 
first jealousy tore at her heart and she 
began vaguely to comprehend the stoop 
in his shoulders. 

He had found the picture among some 
old drawings, and the sight of it enliv- 
ened his desire for Ju6tine. He wrote 
her a letter, and then conceived the plan 
of writing a confession to Celeste, and 
slinking off to his room to await the 
crash. He knew she would fly to him, 
and — well, it would be like defending 
himself against an assault. He laughed 
harshly at himself as he contemplated 
this last exhibition of cowardice. He 
wrote not only one but ten confessions, 
destroying one after the other as the 
lingering spark of manhood flared up 
in resistance to this mode of doing battle. 

One night Celeste came to him in the 
dimly lighted studio. The trouble in 
her heart revealed itself in her voice and 
eyes. He sat dreaming before the little 
grate and started when her hands gently 
touched his cheeks from behind. 

"What is the matter, Jud, dear?" she 
asked, softly. "There is something on 
your mind. Won't you confide in me? 
I love you, dear. Tell me everything, 
Jud, and don't try to bear it alone. Don't 
you think I love you enough to share the 
greatest pain that might come to you?" 

He tried to speak, but could only reach 
up and clasp her hands in his. 

"Can you guess, Jud, of whom I was 
thinking to-day?" she went on bravely. 

"I— I can't guess," he said with mis- 
giving in his soul. 

"I was thinking of Justine Van, that 
pretty girl down in the country. Her 
face was as clear as if it were before me 
in reality. Do you know, Jud, I shall 
always see her as she appeared on that 
day at Proctor's Falls. She was so 
pretty and you were so handsome. I 
thought you were sweethearts, you re- 
member. How embarrassed you were, 
both of you, when I so foolishly told 
you that the money I paid for the 
picture was to be her wedding present. I 



believe I began to love you on that very 

Her hands were still pressing his 
cheeks and her heart suddenly stood still 
and grew icy cold when something hot 
and wet trickled over the fingers. With- 
out a word she drew away from him, and 
when he looked up through the mist of 
tears she was passing from the room, 
straight and still. 



The next morning she telephoned to 
Douglas Converse. In response to her 
somewhat exacting request, he presented 
himself at the Sherrod home in the late 
afternoon. Her manner had impressed 
him with the fear that something had 
gone wrong in the little hqjusehold. They 
were still the best of friends and he was 
a frequent, informal visitor. Jud ad- 
mired him immensely — no one could help 
liking this tall, good-looking, boyish fel- 
low. In the old days Celeste had known 
his love for her, but after her marriage 
there had been no evidence, by word or 
deed, that she still lived uppermost in his 
affections. To Douglas Converse, she 
was the wife of his best friend. 

He had seen, with increasing alarm, 
the change in Jud's manner and appear- 
ance. The anxious look in Celeste's eyes 
was but poorly concealed of late; he 
feared that all was not well with them. 
There was no mistaking Jud's attitude 
toward the world and the genial friends 
of old. The newspaper men who had 
been his boon companions a few months 
before now saw nothing of him. He and 
Celeste rarely were seen in society, sel- 
dom at the threatres and cafes ; it was as 
though they had dropped entirely away 
from the circle which had known them 
so well. The excuse that he was busy 
in his studio was sufficient until even out- 
siders began to see the change in him. 
It was impossible to hide the haggardness 
in his face. 

Converse, sitting opposite Celeste in 
the drawing-room, saw depression under 
the brave show of cheerfulness in her 
face. His mind was filled with the pos- 
sibilities of the moment. Over the tele- 
phone she had said that she wanted to 
see him on a matter of considerable im« 

portance. His first unuttered query on 
entering the hall was: Where is Sher- 
rod? He had expected a greeting from 
him on the moment of his arrival. Be- 
fore the short visit was over. Converse 
was plying himself with scores of silent 
and unanswerable questions. 

"Where is Jud?" he asked, after the 
first commonplaces. 

"At work in the studio," she replied. 
He noticed the change of tone, but tried 
to look uninterested. 

"He's working a trifle hard these days, 
isn't he?" he asked, casually. Somehow, 
he felt relieved on hearing that Jud was 
at work. He discovered that he had 
feared — something, he could not define. 

"What is he doing, Celeste ?" 

"Something for the Milwaukee people 
I was telling you about not long ago. 
They insist on having the paintings be- 
fore the first of February." 

"Before February? Why, that's—" 
But he checked the exhibition of sur- 
prise and went on with admirable enthu- 
siasm — "That's a surprisingly nice oraer. 
It proyes that he has made a hit and that 
the market for his work is immediate." 

"But he is working too hard, Doug- 
las," she cried, unreservedly. The look in 
his eyes changed instantly. 

"I was afraid so," he said. Then, eager 
to dispel any feeling of hesitancy she 
might have, he broke out, bluntly : "You 
are very much disturbed about him, aren't 
you. Celeste ? I know you are, but I think 
you should find some comfort in knowing 
that the work will soon be completed and 
you can both run away for a good rest." 

"I can't help being worried," she said, 
in low tones, as though fearing her words 
might reach Jud's ear in the distant 
studio. "Douglas, I want to talk with 
you about Jud. You will understand, 
won't you? I wouldn't have asked you 
to come if it were not that I am very 
much distressed and need the advice and 
help of some one." 

"Isn't it possible that you are needless- 
ly alarmed?" he asked, earnestly. "I'm 
sure it can be nothing serious. You will 
laugh at your fears some day." 

"I hope y0u are right. But it doesn't 
cheer me a bit to talk like that, Douglas. 
I am not deceiving myself. He is 
changed, oh, so greatly changed," she 

"You — ^you don't mean to say hi 



his love — " began Converse. "There — 
there isn't any danger of — of that?'' he 

**No, no! You don't understand me," 
she said, drearily. **He loves me as much 
as ever — I know he does. It isn't that. 
Douglas, we must get his mind off his 
work. He thinks of — of nothing else." 
She would have given anything for the 
courage to tell him what she had seen 
the day before. Her confidence in this 
tall friend was sufficient, but she could not 
acknowledge the pain and terror Jud's 
tears had brought to her. 

"Well, it can't be for long. The work 
will soon be completed," urged he, know- 
ing as he spoke how futile his words 

"But it makes me so unhappy," she 
cried, with a woman's logic. 

"Poor girl," he smiled. "Let the poor 
chap work in peace. It will come out all 
right. I know him. He's ambitious, in- 
defatigable, eager. His soul is in this 
work. Just now he is winning his spurs 
in a new line and his mind, his heart is 
full of it. Can't you see it all? Put 
yourself in his place, with his fine tem- 
perament, and see how intensely inter- 
ested you would be. You would be just as 
much wrapped up in it as he — just as 
much enraptured, I might say. Brace up, 
dear girl ; Jud can't help but turn out all 
right. He's bound to win." 

"The trouble is — the trouble is — " She 
hesitated so long, staring with wide eyes 
at the grate fire, that he feared she would 
not continue. "His heart doesn't seem 
to be in the work at all." 

"You mean?" 

"I mean, Douglas, that it is not ambi- 
tion that inspires him just now. There is 
something on his mind — something else. 
Oh, I don't know what it can be, but it 
is unmistakable. He is not the same — 
not the same in anything except his love 
for me." 

Converse was silent for a long time, his 
eyes on her pale face, his mind busy with 

"I am glad to hear you say that. 
Celeste," he said at last, a deep sigh es- 
caping involuntarily. 

"He works feverishly," she went oh, 
as though he had not spoken. "Of course, 
he is doing the work well. He never did 
anything badly. But I know he is posi- 
tively driving himself, Douglas. There 

isn't anything like the old inspiration, 
nothing like the old love for the work." 

"I see it all," he said, relief in his 
voice. "His heart is not in the work, 
simply because he is doing it for someone 
else and not for himself. They told him 
what they wanted and he is simply break- 
ing his neck, Celeste, to get the job off his 

"But, listen to me, Douglas," she cried, 
in despair. "He told me they wanted five 
pictures — a series of studies from life. 
The series was to represent five periods 
in the life of a woman, beginning with 
childhood and ending in extreme old age. 
But, Douglas dear, he is painting land- 
scapes instead." 

Converse bit his lip. 

"You must have misunderstood him," 
he managed to say. She shook her head 

"No; he was most precise in explain- 
ing the conditions to me the day after his 
return from Milwaukee. I remember 
that I was very much interested. The 
work, you know, upset our plan for going 
to Florida and I was quite resentful at 
first. You can imagine my astonishment 
when I found that he was doing land- 
scapes and not the figures the order calls 

Converse was dumb in the face of this 
indisputable evidence. He could muster 
up no way to relieve her fears. There 
could be no reassuring her after what 
she had seen and he wisely forebore. 

"It was very strange," he said, finally. 
"He must have a reason for the change 
and no doubt he has forgotten to speak to 
you about it." 

"I wish I could believe that, Douglas," 
she sighed. "He likes you. You can 
help me, if you will." 

"With all my heart. Anything in the 
world. Celeste," he cried. 

"Then get him away from his work as 
much as possible. He won't go out any- 
where, you know. I've implored him to 
go out with me time and again. Douglas, 
can't you think of some way to— to get 
him away from himself?" 

She was standing beside him, her hand 
clasping his as it rested on the arm of 
the chair. Converse looked up into the 
troubled eyes. 

"Tell me what to do. Celeste, and I'll 
try," he said, earnestly. 

'Make him go out with you — go out 




among the men he used to know and 
like so well. Fm sure he likes them still. 
He'd enjoy being with them, don't you 
think? He seldom leaves his studio, 
much less the house. I want you to take 
him to luncheons and dinners — where the 
men ate. It will get him out of himself, 
I know. Do, Douglas, do for my sake, 
make him forget his work. Take him 
back to the old life in the club, at the 
cafes — if only for a little while. Don't 
you understand?" 

"You mean — oh, Celeste, you don't 
mean to say that he is tired of this happi- 
ness ?" he cried. 

"He is unhappy, Fm sure of it. He 
loves me, I know, but — " She could go 
no further. 

"I know what you mean, Celeste, but 
you are wrong — fearfully wrong. Poor 
little woman ! God, but you are brave to 
look at it as you do." 

They did not hear Jud as he stopped on 
the stairs to look down upon them. He 
saw them and was still. The pain was 
almost unbearable. There was no 
jealousy in it, only remorse and pity. 

"Ah, if only she belonged to hifn and 
not to me," he was thinking. "He is 
straight as a die and she would never 
know unhappiness. He loved her, he 
loves her still, and she — poor darling, 
loves me, the basest wretch in all the 

He closed his eyes and leaned heavily 
against the stairway. Its creaking at- 
tracted the attention of the two in the 
drawing-room. When he looked again, 
they were standing and staring at him. 
Slowly he descended, a mechanical smile 
forcing itself into his face. 

"Hello, Doug," he said. "I thought I 
heard your voice. Glad to see you." 

A quick glance of apprehension passed 
between Converse and Celeste. Had he 
heard ? 

"I just inquired for you, Jud," said 
Converse, pulling himself together as 
quickly as possible. "Celeste says you're 
terribly busy. Don't overwork yourself, 
old man. I dropped in to say you are to 
go to a little dinner with me to-night. 
Some of the boys want to eat something 
for old times' sake." 

The shadow that passed over Jud's 
face was disconcerting. 

"There is nothing else in the way, Jud, 

deir," Celeste hastened to say. "It would 
be awfully jolly, I should think." 

"Vogelsang says you haven't been in 
his place for months," added Converse 
reproachfully. "You shouldn't go back 
on a crowd like this, old man. They'll 
think you're stuck up because you've 
made a hit." 

Sherrod smiled wearily, then pulled 
his nerves together and made a brave 
show of being pleased and interested. 

"I don't believe they'll accuse me of 
that, Doug," he said. "They know I'm 
frightfully busy. Who is to be there?" 

Converse, with all his good intentions, 
had not been foresighted enough to see 
that he might be asked this natural ques- 
tion. It was impossible to count on any 
one in particular and it would be far 
from politic to mention names and then 
be obliged to give flimsy excuses if their 
owners failed to appear. 

"Oh, just some of the old crowd," he 
replied, evasively, even guiltily. Jud's 
gaze was on the fire in the grate and Con- 
verse was thankful for the respite. 
"They'll be mighty glad to see you again. 
It doesn't seem right to take you away 
from Celeste, but we're talking of doing 
something like this at least once a week." 

"Can't* you have ladies' night occa- 
sionally, as they say at the clubs ?" asked 
Celeste, merrily entering into the spirit 
of the conspiracy. 

"I suppose we could," said Converse, 
with well-assumed reluctance. 

"Count me out to-night, Douglas," 
said Jud, at this juncture. "I'll come 
down for the next one, but just now 

m — 

"That won't do !" exclaimed Converse, 
peremptorily. "Work is no excuse. There 
was a time when you worked a blamed 
sight harder than you do now, and yet 
you found time to eat, drink and be merry 
— I should say, eat and be merry. You 
go with us to-night. That's all there 
is about it. Fm not going down and tell 
the fellows you couldn't come because 
you had to stay at home and put on a few 
dabs of paint that don't have to be on be- 
fore to-morrow. I'll stop for you on 
my way down at 7:30, and I'll get him 
home safe and sound and sober. Ce- 
leste. Don't worry if he's out after nine 

"I shan't sleep a wink," smiled Celeste, 
putting her arm through Jud's and laying 



her cheek against his shoulder. Sherrod 
sighed and smiled and said he would be 
ready when his friend called. 

Celeste went to the door with her con • 
federate. She pressed his hand warmly 
and her eyes seemed to exact a promise 
that could not be broken. 

"Do everything in your power, Doug- 
las," she said, softly. 

**He hates to leave you alone, Celeste ; 
that's the worst obstacle to the plan," said 
Converse, his lips whitening. **But, we'll 
try to make him — to^I was going to say 
forget, but that would be impossible. He 
can't forget that you are here and loving 
him all the time." 

Then he was off, confronted by rather 
arduous conditions. It would be neces- 
sary to get together a party of congenial 
spirits, and it was imperative that it be 
done in such a way that Jud's suspicion 
might not be aroused. When his hansom 
stopped for Jud at 7:30 Converse was 
thoroughly satisfied with the result of his 
expedition in search of guests, but he was 
conscious of a fear that the attempt to 
take Sherrod "out of himself" would be 
a failure. 

A half-dozen good fellows of the old 
days had promised to come to Vogel- 
sang's at eight, and, under ordinary cir- 
cumstances, there was no reason why 
the night should not be a merry one. It 
all rested with Jud. Converse was grati- 
fied to find his friend in excellent spirits. 
His eyes were bright, his face was alive 
with interest. The change was so marked 
that Converse marvelled while Celeste re- 

If he had any doubts at the beginning, 
they were dispelled long before the night 
was over. Sherrod's humour was wild, 
unnatural. To Converse, it soon became 
ghastly. To the others, it was merely 
cause for wonder and the subject for 
many a sly remark about the "muchly 
married man who finally gets a night 

Going homeward in the hansom. Con- 
verse, now convinced that Jud's mind 
was disordered, asked in considerable 
trepidation if he really meant to dine out 
every evening, as he had said to the 
others at the table. Sherrod's hilarity, 
worked up for the occasion, had sub- 
sided! He was, to the utter bewilder- 
ment of his companion, the personifica- 
tion of gloominess. Involuntarily Con- 

verse moved away from his side, unable 
to conquer the fear that the man was 
actually mad. 

"Did I say that ?" came in slow, mourn- 
ful tones from the drooping figure beside 

"Yes," was all that Converse could 
reply. Sherrod's chin was on his breast, 
his arms hanging limply to the seat. 

"I don't believe I care much for that 
sort of thing any more," he said, slowly. 

"Good Lord, Jud, I thought you had 
a bully time to-night," cried Converse, in 
hurt tones. 

Sherrod looked up instantly. After a 
moment's silence, his hand fell on the 
other's knee and there was something 
piteous in his voice when he spoke. 

"Did you, old man? How in the 
world — " here he brought himself up 
with a jerk — "I should say, how could I 
help having a good time?" he cried en- 
thusiastically. "They are the best lot of 
fellows in the world. I had the time of 
my life." 



Justine waited and waited patiently. 
His midnight visit was the most dramatic 
event of her life. That he had come to 
kill her and then himself she was slow 
in realising. As the days and nights 
went by, the real horror of this thought 
took root and grew. Sometimes she 
awakened in the night cold with perspira- 
tion, dreading to see the white-faced man 
in the doorway. In some of her dreams 
he stood above her, knife uplifted, his 
face full of unspeakable malevolence. 
Waking she would scream aloud and in- 
stinctively she would draw her baby close 
to her breast as if seeking protection from 
this tiny guardian. 

His letter, intended to inspire confi- 
dence and hope was not skillful enough 
to deceive even Justine. She could read 
between the lines and there she could see 
that he was hiding something from her. 
She could not help feeling that he was 
facing failure and that he was miserable. 
With every mail she expected to receive a 
letter from him in which he would an- 
nounce that he had given up the fight, 
and then would come the dispatch bear- 
ing the news that he had killed himself. 


20 1 

Mrs. Crane knew, of course, of Sher- 
rod's strange visit. 'Gene Crawley saw 
him but once on that occasion, looking 
gloomily from the window. The two 
men did not speak to each other, although 
Crawley would have called a greeting to 
him had not the man in the window 
turned away abruptly as soon as he met 
the gaze of the one in the barnyard. The 
only human creature about the little farm 
who did not feel the oppressiveness was 
the baby, Dudley, the second. He was 
a healthy, happy child and birth-gift of 
tragedy though he was, he brought sun- 
shine to the sombre home. 

One day three weeks after Jud's visit, 
Justine approached 'Gene as he crossed 
the lot on his wav to feed the stock in the 
sheds. A team of horses occupied stalls 
in the barn, but they were not Justine's. 
When her horses had died, 'Gene, from 
the savings of many months, had bought 
a team of his own, and his animals were 
doing the work on her place. The cow 
and the hogs and the chickens belonged 
to Justine — and Jud. Crawley observed 
an unusual pallor in her face and her eyes 
were dark with pain and trouble. 

" 'Gene, I can't get it out of my mind 
that everything is not going well with 
Jud," she said, as he came up to her. 

"Wasn't he all right when he was 
here?" asked he, slowly. She had to 
hesitate for a moment before she could 
answer the question. She must choose 
her words. 

"He has not been well, 'Gene," she said 
at last. "You know sickness is a dread- 
fully discouraging thing in a big place 
like Chicago. Nobody cares whether you 
get well or die, and if you get too sick to 
work some one else takes your place. Jud 
has had a lot of bad luck and I know he's 
sick and discouraged." 

"He didn't look right well when he 
was here," admitted 'Gene. "I wouldn't 
git upset about it, 'f I was you Justine. 
He'll come out all right." 

"But maybe he is sick and can't do 
anything," she persisted. "When he was 
here he said he'd been out of work and in 
a hospital for a long time." 

"Out of work?" repeated he, slowly. 

"Yes," she went on, hurriedly, now 
that she had begun the confession, "and 
he is in debt, too. It costs so much 
money to live up there and if one gets 
behind it's hard to catch up, he says. Oh, 

'Gene, do you suppose anything has hap- 
pened to him ? I have had no letter since 
last Thursday and this is Wednesday, 
isn't it? I know he is sick, I know it, 

"Ain't he on the paper any more?" 

"He has been off the paper for 

"Doin' nothin'?" 

"Some private work, but it hasn't paid 
well. And, besides, he hasn't been well. 
That's held him back." 

"What did he say when he was here? 
Did he have a job in view?" 

"No," she answered, shame outfacing 
her pride. Neither spoke for a long time. 
She was looking intently at the frozen 
ground, nervously clasping and unclasp- 
ing her fingers. His black eyes were 
upon the white, drooping face and his 
slow mind was beginning to see light. 
His heart began to swell with rage 
against the man who had won this prize 
and could not protect it. 

With the shrewdness of the country- 
man, he concluded that Jud had not been 
able to combat the temptations of the 
great city. He had failed because he had 
fallen. He cast a slow glance at Justine. 
Her head was bent and her hands were 
clasping and unclasping. He knew what 
it was costing her to make confession to 
him and lifted his head with the joy of 
feeling that she had come to him for 


"\Vhv don't he come home if he's 
sick?" he asked. "He could rest up 
down here an' — an' mebby that'd git him 
on his feet ag'in." 

"He doesn't like to give up, that's all. 
You know how brave and true he is, 
'Gene. It would be awful to come back 
here and admit that — that he couldn't get 
along up there. Oh, I wish he would come 
back, I wish he would come back," she 
wailed, breaking down completely. The 
tears forced themselves through the fin- 
gers that were pressed to her eyes. 

"God A'mighty, how she loves him," 
groaned Crawley to himself. In this 
moment the big blasphemer of other days 
loved her more deeply than ever before 
in his dark, hopeless life. "Couldn't you 
— vou write an' tell him to come down 
here fer a couple of weeks or — or a 
month ?" he stammered, after a moment 
of thought. 

"He wouldn't come, 'Gene, he wouldn't 



come," she sobbed. "He said he would 
not give up until he had made a home 
for me up there. When he came the last 
time he was discouraged but — but he got 
over it and — and — oh, I wish he would 
write to me! The suspense is killing 

Crawley had turned his back and was 
leaning against the fence. 

"He needs me, 'Gene," she said, "he 
needs me to cheer him on. I ought to be 
with him up there." 

He started sharply and turned to her. 
She was looking straight into his eyes, 
and her hands were half lifted toward 

"He is so lonely and Vm sure he is 
sick. I must go to him — I must. That's 
what I want to talk to you about. How 
am I to go to him ? What shall I do ? I 
can't bear it any longer. My place is 
with him." 

"If he ain't got a job, Justine, you'll — 
you'll be—" 

"You want to say that I'll be a burden 
to him, that's it, isn't it ? But I'll work for 
him. I'll do anything. If he's sick. Til 
wash and iron and sew and scrub and — 
oh, anything. I've been thinking about 
it since last night and you must not con- 
sider me foolish when I tell you what I 
want to do. I want to borrow some 
money on the place." 

"You mean you want to put a mortgage 
on the — on the farm?" he asked, slowly. 

"How else can I get the money, 'Gene ? 
A small mortgage won't be so bad, will 
it ? What is the farm worth ?" She was 
feverish with excitement. 

"It's not the best of land, you know, 
and there ain't no improvements," he 
said, still more deliberately. "You might 
sell the place for $2000 but I doubt it." 

"I won't sell it ; it must be kept for my 
boy. But I can borrow a little on it, 
can't I ? Wouldn't David Strong let me 
have $200 on it ?" 

"Good Lord, Justine, don't put a mor- 
gidge on the place," he cried. "That will 
be the end of it. It's the way it always 
goes. Don't, fer God's sake, do anvthing 
like that." 

"There is no other way to get the 
money and I — I am going to Jud," she 
said, determinedly, and he saw the light 
in her eye. 

In the end he promised to secure the 
money for her and he did. The next day 

Martin Grimes loaned Eugene Crawley 
$150, taking a chattel mortage on a farm 
wagon and harness and the two big bay 
horses that stood in Justine's bam. At 
first she refused to take the money, but 
his insistence prevailed and three days 
later she and her boy left Glenville for 
Chicago and Jud. She promised to ac- 
quaint Crawley with Jud's true condition 
and their plans for the future. 

Crawley said good bye to her as she 
climbed into Harve Grose's wagon on the 
day of departure. He wished her luck in 
a harsh, unnatural tone, and abruptly 
turned to the barn. For hours he sat in 
the cold mow, disconsolate, exalted. His 
horses stamping below were mortgaged ! 
Lost to him, no doubt, but he gloried in 
the sacrifice. He had given his fortune 
to gratify her longing to be with the man 
she loved. 

At sunset he trudged to the toll gate. 
An unreasoning longing filled his lonely 
heart. When he asked for the mail there 
was uppermost in his mind the hope of a 
letter from her, although she had been 
gone not more than five hours. His 
loneliness increased when Mrs. Hardesty 
said that there was no mail for him or 
Justine. For the first time in months he 
felt the old longing for drink. 

"Jestine gone to Chickago fer a visit 
er to stay?" asked Jim Hardesty, when 
Crawley joined the crowd that lounged 
about the big sheet-iron stove in the 

'Gene did some very quick thinking in 
the next few minutes. He realized that 
her departure had been the subject of 
comment and speculation and that it 
would be necessary for him to resort to 
something he knew nothing about — di- 
plomacy. Had he been an observing man 
he would have noticed the sudden cessa- 
tion of talk about the stove when he first 
entered the toll house. The loungers had 
been discussing her departure and there 
would have been a murderer in their 
midst had 'Gene Crawley heard the re- 
mark that fell from Luther Hitchcock's 

"Don't know how long she'll stay," 
responded 'Gene, briefly. He leaned 
against the counter, crossing his legs. 

"How's Jed gittin' 'long up yander?" 
continued Jim. 

'AH right, I reckon." 

'Justine hain't been lookin' very well 





lately," said Link Overshine, from the 

"Hain't looked herself sence the kid 
come," added Hitchcock. 

"When did she last hear from Jud?" 
asked Link. 

"Talkin' to me?" asked Crawley. 


"Well, how in hell do you s'pose I 
know anything about her letters ?" 

"Don't you git the mail ?" 

"Harve Crose leaves it as he goes by 
an' you know it, Overshine." 

"She ain't had a letter from him in 
more'n a week," volunteered the post- 
master. "He don't write very regular here 
of late." 

"Does the gover'ment hire you to tell 
who gits letters through this office an' 
when they git 'em ?" demanded Crawley, 
sharply. Jim hitched back in his chair 

"Good Lord, they ain't no harm in 
that," exclaimed he. 

"You talk too much fer a job like this, 
Jim," said Crawley. 

There followed a few moments of si- 

"One of Grimes's men says you mor- 
gidged your team to the old man," began 

"Which one of Grimes's men said 
that?" asked 'Gene, quietly. 

"Why, I— er — lemme see, who did say 
it?" floundered Link, in distress. 

"Oh, it don't matter," said 'Gene, care- 
lessly. "I just asked." The subject was 
dropped at once. The crowd watched 
him leave the place and conversation was 
stagnant until Hardesty, who was near 
the window, remarked that 'Gene was 
walking pretty rapidly down the road. 
With the knowledge that he was out of 
sight and hearing, the loungers discussed 
him and his affairs freely. 

It was not until the fourth day that he 
received a letter from Chicago, directed 
in strange hand-writing. A number of 
men were in the store when the epistle 
was handed out to him by Mrs. Hardesty. 
Without hesitation he tore open the en- 
velope and began to read. The letter was 
for him, beyond a doubt, but Justine had 
not addressed the envelope. What had 
happened to her ? 

He read the letter with at least a 
dozen eyes watching his face, but his 
dark face betrayed no sign of emotion. 

At the end, he calmly replaced the note 
in the envelope and strolled off home- 
ward. Once out of the hearing of the 
curious, he leaned against a fence, read 
it again, folded it carefully, opened it 
and read it again, and then lowered his 
hands and gazed out over the fields. 



"Mr. Sherrod is not working for the 
paper now," responded a man in the 
counting room when Justine, overawed, 
applied for information at the office of 
the newspaper in which her husband's 
pictures had attracted such widespread 
notice. At the station a policeman had 
put her in a cab with directions to the 
driven. "With her baby and her pitiful 
old satchel, she was jolted over the 
streets and up to the door of the news- 
paper office. She felt small, helpless, lost 
in this vast solitude of noises. The rush 
of vehicles, cars and people frightened 
her. Every moment she expected there 
would be a collision and catastrophe. 
And Jud was somewhere in this seething, 
heartless city, sick, unhappy, discouraged, 
and longing for her. 

"I know," she responded, thickly, to 
the clerk, whose glance had been cold 
and whose tones were curt. "He left 
here some months ago, but he gets his 
mail here." 

"Does he?" brusquely. 

"I address all of my letters to this 
office and he gets them." 

"Country as can be," thought the clerk, 
his eye sweeping over her, "but devilish 
pretty. Lord, what eyes she's got." 
Then aloud, with a trifle more cordiality : 
"I'll ask Mr. Brokell if he knows where 
Sherrod lives. Just wait a minute, 
please." As he walked away there was 
one thought in his mind : "Sherrod is a 
lucky dog if he can get this woman to 
leave her happy home for him." In a 
few minutes he returned with the in- 
formation that the address was not in 
the office, but that he would be glad to 
assist her in the search. She thanked 
him and walked away. Somehow she did 
not like to meet the eye of this man. 
There was in it an expression she had 
never seen before, she who had looked 
only into the honest faces of countrymen. 



The shock of the clerk's blunt an- 
nouncement that Jud's address was not 
known to anyone then in the office was 
stupefying. So stunned with surprise 
was she that her wits did not return un- 
til she found herself caught up by the 
rushing throng on the sidewalk. When 
she paused in the aimless progress 
through the crowd, she was far from the 
newspaper office and paralyzed by the 
realization that she and the baby had 
nowhere to god. In sheer terror, she 
stopped still and looked about with the 
manner of one who is aroused from a 
faint and finds a strange world looking 
on in sympathetic curiosity. 

Busy men jostled her rudely, thought- 
lessly; women arrayed as she had seen 
but one in her life, stared at her as she 
stood frightened and undecided in the 
middle of the sidewalk. There was no 
friendly face, no kindly hand in all that 
rushing crowd. Scarcely realising what 
she did, she asked a man who leaned 
against the building nearby if he knew 
Dudley Sherrod. The man stared at her 
blankly for an instant, a sarcastic grin 
flashing across his hard face. The smile 
faded instantly, however, for, street loaf- 
er though he was, he saw the agony in 
her eyes and knew that she had lost her 
way. With a politeness that surprised 
himself, he answered in the negative and 
then advised her to consult a directory. 

She looked so helpless and unhappy 
that he volunteered to lead her to the 
nearest drug store. She followed him 
across the street, her baby on one arm, 
the big "telescope" bumping against her 
tired leg as she lugged it with the other 
hand. The city directory gave Dudley 

Sherrod's address as 1837 E 

street, but she remembered that he had 
left this place nearly a year before. Her 
friend, the lounger, advised hre to appeal 
to the police, but she revolted against 
an3^hing suggestive of the "criminal." 
To ask the police to look for her husband 
was, to her, shocking. 

A clerk in the store was appealed to 
by the lounger and that individual agreed 
with him that the police alone could find 
"the Man," if he was to be found at all. 
All this was adding new terror. Tears 
came to Justine's eyes and she did not 
try to dash them away. Pride was con- 
quered by despair. The clerk, taking 
matters in his own hands, called in a 

passing policeman and bluntly told her to 
state the situation to him. 

"In the fir-rst place, ma'am, d'ye know 
the felly here?" asked the officer, r^ard- 
ing the lounger with an unfriendly eye. 
The latter winced a bit but did his best to 
put up a brave show of resentment. 

"She never seen me till ten minutes 
ago, Maher, an' I ain't done or said 
nawthin 'wrong to her, hones' to God. 
Leave it to th' girl herself if I ain't been 
dead square. Ain't I, ma'am?" 

"He's been very kind, policeman," 
answered Justine, eagerly. 

"Sure, sure, Maher, dat's right," said 
the lounger, triumphantly. 

"Did he's thry to touch ye, ma'am?" 
demanded the officer, still unsatisfied. 

"No, sir; he did not do anything so 
rude. He was very kind and I thank 
him," responded she, taking the word 
"touch" literally. 

"What d'l tell you?" said the suspect, 
in hurt tones. 

"Kape yer gab out, Biggs," said the of- 
ficer. "I mean, ma'am, did he ask yez 
fer money?" 

"O, no, sir," said Justine, confusedly. 

"Never asked her fer a cent, on the 

"That'll do ye. Biggs. Clear out onny- 
how," said the policeman, unpityingly. 

"Aw, dat's not right — " 

"G'wan, now, will ye?" exclaimed Of- 
ficer Maher, roughly shoving Mr. Biggs 
toward the door. 

"Oh," cried Justine, indignantly. "Let 
him alone!" Her eyes were flashing 

"It's all right, ma'am," explained the 
clerk, calmly. 

"But he's done nothing wrong." 

"You can't take chances with these 
bums. They're a bad lot. He's a tough 
customer, Biggs is. Don't have anything 
to do with strangers on the street. It's 
not safe." By this time the red-faced 
guardian of the peace was with them 
again and Justine reluctantly explained 
her dilemma to him. 

"He worked here for a long time as a 
newspaper artist," she said, in conclusion. 

"I've seen his pictures many a time," 
said the clerk with new interest. "Is he 
your husband?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"I guess he's not on the paper now. I 
haven't seen his pictures for some time." 



"He's been oflF the paper for nearly a 

"Come wid me to hidquarters, ma'am, 
an' the chief'll sind some wan out to 
loca-ate him befure night," said the of- 
ficer. "Sthate yer case to the boss. It 
won't be no thrick to find him." 

"I hate to have the police look for 
him," said she, imploringly. 

"Will, thin, phat'd yez call me in fer?" 
demanded the officer, harshly. 

"I — I didn't call you in, sir," said she, 
looking helplessly at the clerk. 

"I called you in, officer," said the clerk. 
"She didn't know what to do." 

"Will, it's up to ye, ma'am. We'll find 
him if yez say so." 

"Do you know any one else in Chi- 
cago?" asked the clerk. "Maybe there's 
some one you could go to while they're 
trying to find your husband." 

"I don't know any one here," said she, 

• "Don't you want to leave your — your 
grip here ? We'll take care of it till you 
come after it." 

"That'll be all right, ma'am. It'll be 
safe here an' yez don't want to be luggin' 
it around town wid that kid on yer hands. 
L'ave it here," said Officer Maher, and 
he picked it up and carried it behind the 
prescription counter before she could re- 
monstrate. The clerk handed her a card 
containing the name and location of the 

"O, I do know some one here," she 
cried, suddenly, her face brightening. 
"Miss Celeste Wood. Do you think I 
could find her?" 

To her dismay, the name was not in 
the directory. 

"Does she live with her parents," 
asked the clerk. 

"I — I think so," replied Justine, help- 

Do you know her father's name ?" 
No, sir. She has a brother named 
Randall, would his name be in the book ?" 

Young Wood's name and address were 
readily found by the clerk and officer. 
Maher advised her to take a cab to the 
place at once. These men unceremoni- 
ously took matters in their own hands, 
and, almost before she knew it, a cab was 
taking her northward, bound for the 
home of the girl who had so often sent 
her love, through Jud, to the other girl 
of Proctor's Falls. 



The ride gave her ample time to reflect 
and she had not gone far before her 
thoughts were running once more in a 
straight channel. Her pride grew as the 
situation became plainer, displacing the 
first dread and confusion. How could 
she go to a stranger and inflict her with 
her troubles? What right had she to 
ask her assistance or even her interest in 
this hour of need? Beside all this, the 
mere confession that she could not find 
her husband would be humiliating to her 
and explanations ^would be sure to put 
Jud in an unpleasant light. It would 
mean that she must tell Miss Wood of 
his failure in everything, a condition 
which the young woman might politely 
deplore, but that was all. Her own poor 
garments now seemed the shabby reflec- 
tion of Jud's poverty, his degradation, his 
fall from the high pedestal that had been 
his by promise. She could not look down 
into the bright, laughing eyes of her boy 
and go on to the shameful exposition of 
his father's misfortune. The red of pride 
mounted to her brown cheeks and the new 
fire in her eyes burned bright with the 
resolution to save him and herself from 
the humiliation of an appeal to Miss 

Past rows of magnificent homes she 
was driven, but they interested her not 
at all. Beneath-her pride, however, there 
battled the fast diminishing power of 
reason. Try as she would, she could not 
drive out the stubborn spark which told 
her that she must call upon some one in 
her helplessness — but that the "some 
one" should be a woman was distressing. 
As she was struggling with pride and 
reason, the cab turned in and drew up at 
the curb in front of a handsome house. 
Her heart gave a great bound of dismay. 

"This is No. , ma'am," said the 

driver as he threw open the door. 

"I— I don't believe I'll go in," she 
stammered, trembling in every nerve. 

"Where shall I take you?" he asked, 
wearily. Little he cared for the emotions 
of his fares. 

"Are you sure this is the place?" she 

"Yes, ma'am. Do you want to get 
out ?" 

Fresh courage inspired her, brought 
about by the sharp realization that it was 
the only way to find help, humiliating 
though the method might be. There was 



no other way, and his question : "Where 
shall I take you ?*' reminded her forcibly 
that she had no place to go. 

"Yes," she said, decisively, and with 
the haste of one who is afraid that hesita- 
tion will bring weakness, she stepped to 
the carriage-block. 

"Shall I wait, ma'am ?" 

"I don't know how long Til be here," 
she said, her ignorance confronted by an- 
other puzzle. The driver saw in his mind 
sufficient cause for her uncertainty, and 
sagely concluded that she was ^ poor 
mother who expected fo find a home for 
her babe with the wealthy people who 
lived at No. . 

"I'll drive into the park and be back in 
half an hour, ma'am, if you think you'll 
be there that long," he said, and away he 
rolled. She mounted the steps quickly, 
and, after a long and embarrassing 
search, found the electric button and rang 
the door bell. A trim maid responded. 
Justine had fondly hoped that Miss 
Wood herself would come to the door, 
and her heart sank with disappointment. 

"Is Miss Wood at home?" she man- 
aged to ask. 

"She does not live here," replied the 
maid, surveying the caller with a superior 
and supercilious air. 

"I thought her brother — " began Jus- 
tine, faintly. She felt as if she were 
about to fall. 

"Mr. and Mrs. Wood live here, and 
they have a married daughter living over 

in S Place. I have onlv been here 

since Monday, ma'am, and I can't tell 
you her address." 

"It is Miss Celeste Wood I want to 
see," said poor Justine, her lip trembling. 

"That's the name — Celeste. She was 
here yesterday and I heard Mrs. Wood 
speak the name. Won't Mrs. Wood do 
as well?" There was kindness in the 
voice now, Justine's eyes had made their 
usual conquest. 

"I'd — I'd rather see Miss Celeste," she 
said, timidly. "Can't you tell me where 
she lives ?" 

"I'll ask Mrs. Wood. The butler'd 
know but he is sick. Will you wait in- 
side the door ? What a pretty baby 1" 

She was gone but a few minutes, re- 
turning before Justine's dazed eyes had 
half accustomed themselves to the at- 
tractive place. 

"She lives at No. 1733 S- 


You go to the next corner and turn west. 
The house is in the second block." 

The day was cold and her bare hands 
were numb. The wind from the lake cut 
through her thin garments so relentless- 
ly that she longed for the protection of 
the carriage which was not to return for 
half an hour — and then to the wrong 
place. What if Celeste were not at home? 
She could not ask to be permitted to sit 
in her house until her return ; that would 
be too much of an imposition. She could 
only return to the street and wait for 
half an hour in the freezing winds for the 
cab which seemed like a home to her now. 

A hurrying figure in furs and brown 
approached from the direction in which 
she was going. The two drew nearer and 
nearer, the one walking rapidly against 
the wind, the other driven along more 
swiftly than was her wont by the heavy 
gale at her back. Justine was the first 
to recognize the other. Her heart gave a. 
great bound of joy, for there could be no 
mistaking the face of the woman who 
faced the wind. The country girl jubi- 
lantly uttered in her soul a prayer of 
gratitude to the Providence that had 
brought her face to face with the one she 
sought. She half stopped as the other 
drew near. Celeste's eves met hers. Evi- 
dently she was surprised to observe a de- 
sire to speak with her, on the part of a 
stranger. Justine's eyes were wide with 
relief and her lips were parted as if words 
were just inside. Celeste's eyes narrowed 
for one brief instant of indecision and 
then she knew. There was but one face 
like Justine Van's and it had been in her 
mind for days and days. She had just 
come from it, in fact, and her heart was 
still aching with the pain of seeing it on 
Jud's easel not an hour before. But what 
could the girl be doing in Chicago? was 
the thought that flashed into her mind. 
Even as she opened her lips to greet her, 
her hands extended, it was known to her 
that Justine could be going only to the 
home of Jud Sherrod. Justine's joy was 
too great for words and Celeste's heart 
went out to her irresistibly. Despite the 
wanness of the face and the dark circles 
under the eyes Justine's were still the 
vivid, matchless features that Celeste had 
envied in that other day. Though she 
was sorely troubled by the inexplicable 
presence of the one woman whom she had 



been thinking of for days, Celeste could 
but greet her warmly. 

'This is the greatest surprise in the 
world," cried Celeste. "Who would have 
dreamed of seeing you here ?" 

"I have just come from your old home. 
They told me you lived on this street," 
said Justine, her voice hoarse with emo- 

"And you were going to my home," 
cried Celeste, just as if intuition had not 
told her so before. "I Was on my way to 
mother's. Isn't it lucky we met? I will 
go back with you at once. You must be 
very cold. And — a baby ? Oh, the dear 
little one ! How cold it must be." 

"I have him well wrapped up," said 
Justine. Celeste mentally noted that the 
child was protected at the sacrifice of the 
mother's comfort, for Justine looked half 

"Is he — IS he your boy?" asked Celeste, 
and a wave of happiness surged over 
her when the answer came. Did it not 
prove that she was married and forever 
out of Jud's life ? 

"I am sure he must be a handsome lit- 
tle fellow," said she, as they turned from 
the sidewalk to the steps leading to the 
door of her home. 

"He looks like his father — and not a 
bit like me," said Justine, modestly. 

"Have you named him ?" 

"He is named after his father, of 

"A token of real love." 

"Of love; yes — he could have had no 
other name. I am so happy that he is a 
boy." The door swung open and they 
were in the warm hallway. 

"You must let me see him. Bring him 
to the grate. But, first, take off your hat 
and coat. Mary will relieve you of them. 
Now, let me see him." 

Dudley, the second, was awake, wide- 
eyed and frightened when he looked up 
into the two faces above him. 

"Does he not look like his father?" 
asked Justine, happily. 



Celeste started. Justine's innocent 
query rudely tore down the curtain that 
had hung between her understanding and 
Jud's strange behaviour, and it seemed 

to her, in that one brief, horrible moment, 
that she saw all that was black and ugly 
in life. 

She could take her eyes from the moth- 
er's gentle face only to let them rest 
upon the features of the baby. Justine's 
question — "Does he not look like his 
father?" — could have but one answer. 
Dudley Sherrod's likeness was stamped 
on the face of the boy unmistakable, ac- 
cusing. In her terror, the face of the lit- 
tle one seemed to age suddenly until there 
loomed up before her the features of Jud, 
the man. 

Powerless to answer, she turned 
abruptly and staggered to a window, 
leaning heavily against the casing, her 
heart like lead, her face as white as death. 
She knew now the cause of everything 
that had mystified and troubled her in 
Jud's conduct. Now she knew why the 
picture of Justine was before him, now 
she knew why the mention of her name 
threw him into confusion. The whole 
wretched truth was plain. 

"Oh, Jud ! Oh, Jud !" she cried to her- 
self. "Oh, this poor ruined girl? How 
could he have done such a — oh, God, no, 
no ! I must be wrong. The resemblance 
is not real — it is my fancy. But — ^but, 
why does she ask me if he looks like his 
father? What other father can there be 
— what other man is known to both of 
us ? But how young the boy is ; Jud has 
not seen her in years. He cannot be the 
father. Why am I afraid? Why have I 
doubted him?" The voice of the other 
woman came to her from the fireplace, 
indistinct, jumbled and as if through the 
swirl of a storm. 

"Pardon me, but I do not know what 
your name is now," was the apologetic 
remark from the other side of the room, 
and Celeste turned to her. 

"My name is — is Sherrod, Miss Van," 
she said, slowly. Justine looked up in 
surprise and bewilderment. A shadow 
of unbelief crossed her face. 

"Sherrod?" she asked, curiously. 
"Why, how strange that we should have 
the same name." 

The same name, Miss Van ?" 
My name has not been Van for a long, 
long time. We were married before you 
met us at Proctor's Falls, I'm — ^why, 
what is the matter?" 

"It is not true — ^it is not true," half 
shrieked Celeste. Justine shrank back as 







if confronted by a mad woman, instinc- 
tively shielding her boy. '*Do you mean 
to tell me you were married to Jud Sher- 
rod?" she continued, scornfully? 

**Of course I was — don't look at me 
like that 1 What in the name of heaven 
is the matter, Mrs. — Mrs. — " a sickening 
thought struggled into Justine's mind. 
**Your name is — is Sherrod, too," she 
said, dully. "Has — has Jud anything to 
do with it r 

'*He is not your husband," cried Ce- 
leste, pityingly. 

"What do you mean ?" gasped Justine, 
limp and white. "Jud and I were mar- 
ried three years ago — " 

"Oh!" moaned Celeste. Justine's ex- 
tended arm caught her as she dropped 
forward. The wild blue eyes looked pit- 
eously- into the frightened brown ones 
and the grey lips repeated hoarsely: 
Are you sure ? Are you sure ?" 

"What shall I do?" moaned Justine. 
I am his wife, I know I am. Nobody 
can deny it. Why, why, I have the cer- 
tificate — " she went on eagerly. Celeste 
struggled to her feet. 

"Then what, in the name of our God, 
has he made of me ?" she cried, hoarsely. 

"I don't understand," murmured Jus- 
tine, dully. "Do you— do you love him ?" 

"Love him ? Love him ? Why, woman, 
he is my husband !" 

The world went black before Justine's 
eyes. She fell back in the deep chair; 
her big eyes closed, her hands relaxed 
their clasp on the boy and he slid to the 
protecting arm of the chair; her breath 
clogged her throat. As consciousness 
fled, she saw Celeste sink to the floor at 
her feet. 

A man drew aside the curtains a few 
minutes afterwards and planted a heavy 
foot inside the room. His sombre eves 
were on the floor and it was not until he 
was well inside the room that his gaze 
fell upon the still group at the fireplace. 
He paused, his tired eyes for the moment 
resting wearily on the scene. Slowly his 
mind, which had been far away, caught 
up the picture before him. His dull sen- 
sibilities became active. 

Celeste was lying on the floor. She 
had fainted. He stretched forth his arms 
to lift her and his eyes fell upon the up- 
turned face of the woman in the chair. 
Petrified, he stood for an age, it seemed. 

Comprehension slowly forced its way 
into his brain. 

"Justine 1" A shriek of terror burst in 
his throat, the sound did not reach his 
lips. The end had come. It was all 
over! They knew — they knew! They 
knew him for what he was. He had not 
the strength to flee; he only knew that 
he was face to face with the end. He 
must stand his ground, as well now as 
any time. He waited. There would be 
cries, sobs, wails, and bitterness. 

But no sounds came from the lips of 
the two women. The baby alone stared in 
wonder at this strange man. The faces 
of the unconscious girls were death-like, 
Justine's drawn with pain. Celeste's 
white and weak. Unconsciously his hand 
touched Justine's face, then her breast. 
She did not move, but her heart was 
beating. With the same mechanical calm- 
ness he dropped to one knee and half 
raised Celeste's head, expecting her eyes 
to open. The lids lay still and dark and 
her neck was limp. As he rose to his 
feet stiffly, his eyes fell upon the face of 
the boy and it was as if he were a child 
again and looking at himself in the old 
mirror up at the house "on the pike." 

He could not meet the smile of that 
innocent spectator. In a fever of haste 
lest either woman should revive before 
he could be ridden from their wretched 
eyes, he pressed cold lips to their lips,cov- 
vered the baby's face with kisses and a 
flood of tears that suddenly burst forth, 
and then dashed blindly from the room 
and up the broad staircase, terrified by 
the sound of his own footfalls, in dread 
of a piteous call from below, eager to 
escape the eyes — ^the condemning eyes 
that once had loved him. 

Celeste was the first to open her eyes. 
For many minutes she lay where she had 
fallen, striving to remember how she 
came to be there. Memory gradually 
pushed aside the kindly numbness — and 
she saw clearly. Dragging herself to 
the mantel post, she tried to regain her 
feet. The effect was vain; her strength 
had not returned. Leaning against the 
Mosaic background, she turned her eyes 
upon the motionless figure in the chair. 
She never knew what her thoughts were 
a.s she sat there and gazed upon the face 
of the other woman, Justine Van — ^Jus- 
tine Van, the girl of Proctor's Falls. 

At last a long sigh came from Justine's 



lips, there was a deep shudder and then 
the fluttering lids parted, two wide, dazed 
eyes of brown staring into space. Min- 
utes passed before the gaze of the two 
women met. There were no words, noth- 
ing but the fixed stare of horror. Moved 
by a desperate impulse Celeste struggled 
to her feet, her glazed eyes bent upon the 
face of the baby. Steadying herself for an 
instant against the mantel, she lurched 
forward, hatred in her heart, her hands 
outstretched. The fingers locked them- 
selves in the folds of the child's dress and 
he was raised above the head of the 
frenzied woman. 

Justine's weak hand went up appeal- 
ingly; she had not the strength to rise 
and snatch the child from the other's 

"Then, kill me, too," she whispered, 
closing her eyes. 

A crowing laugh came from the child, 
the laugh of an infant who is tossed on 
high and revels in the fun. A moment 
later he was lying in his mother's lap and 
his enemy was sobbing as she laid her 
hand in the dark hair of the other 

A distant scream came from some- 
where in the house, but the two women 
did not hear it. A maid came scurrying 
downstairs, white and excited. She 
dashed unceremoniously into the room, 
panting out the single exclamation: 

"Hurry !" 

Celeste slowly turned toward her. 

"What is it, Mary?" she asked, me- 
chanically, almost unconsciously. 

"Mr. Sherrod, ma'am — you must come 
quick. In the studio," gasped the maid. 

"Is Jud here?" asked Justine, raising 
herself in the chair. A new light strug- 
gled into her eyes. Celeste, cold with the 
certainty of some terrible news, straight- 
ened to receive the blow. 

Is it — bad, Mary ?" she asked. 

'Oh, ma'am, I— I can't tell you," al- 
most whispered the girl. "It's awful! 
I'll see him to my dying day." 

"He — he is dead ?" The question came 
from frozen lips. 

The maid burst into tears. 



Sherrod's body lay stretched across the 
rug in front of the grate in his studio. 



His coat and vest had been hastily 
thrown aside and his white shirt, cover- 
ing the deep chest, was saturated with 
blood. The carved hilt of a Malay dag- 
ger stood defiantly above the cleft heart ; 
the steel was deep in his body. 

He had dealt one blow but he had sent 
the blade of the kris straight home; so 
true was its course that death must have 
been instantaneous. He lay flat on his 
broad back, his neck twisted as if checked 
in the supreme moment of agony; death 
had left its stamp of pain on his ghastly 

On the floor near the body a piece of 
white paper was found, across which was 
scrawled : 

"Forgive me." 

The hand that penciled these words 
was the same that drove home the blade, 
but it had trembled only in the writing, 
not in the blow. The hasty scrawl re- 
vealed his eagerness to have over with 
life while there was yet a chance to es- 
cape facing the ruined women below. 
The last plea of the suicide was not di- 
rected to either of the loved ones ; it was 
left for each to take it to her heart and 
in secrecy hold it as hers alone— cherish- 
ing it, if she could. 

His had been a crime that the law could 
not sufficiently punish. He had inflicted 
the penalty himself and he had asked the 
forgiveness of those he had wronged in 
his weakness. They had loved him to the 
hour of his death ; they had trusted him. 
Neither had known him in his baseness 
or his cowardice — they knew him only as 
loving, devoted, and true. Death came 
just as the joys of being his were shat- 
tered; the pains he had given them in 
life were known only after he had gone 
from them. They were asked to forgave 
a dead man who had been everything to 
them in life and whom they had loved 
until his last breath was drawn; he did 
not wait to receive their reproaches; he 
had gone away as they had known hini 
and they had not looked upon the face of 

Celeste was the calmer of the two and 
yet she was the more deeply wronged. 
After the first grief, she arose, bleedingand 
broken from the wreck of every joy, and 
she was strong. Justine, stunned by grief 
and horror, lay for hours in the bed to 
which she had been carried by the maids 
after the terrible scene in the studio. 



With the slow return of composure, Ce- 
leste saw dimly the situation as it existed 
for her. She was not a widow. The 
widow was the other woman who had 
crouched on the opiX)site side of the 
corpse, pleading with him to come back 
to her and the boy. While she could not 
as yet grasp the full reality of her posi- 
tion, she felt that Justine's claim was 

It was she who had Justine taken to a 
room by the maids. There was no rage 
in her heart ; she took that other one into 
her grief and shared it with her. There 
was no other way ; they had suffered to- 
gether. There still lingered a faint hope 
— cruel though it was — that she might 
be the real wife and Justine the false 
one. Hours after the calamity, far in the 
jiight, while her mother bathed her head 
and sought to soothe her. Celeste planned 
and planned. 

She knew that if Justine's claim were 
true, Jud had deliberately made a wanton 
of her, even though he loved her. The 
world would soon know that she was not 
a wife and the newspapers would be 
nauseous with the sensation. She was con- 
fident, however, that she was the only 
one in the house who knew Justine's 
story, and as she lay waiting for the 
dawn there grew in her mind a steady 
purpose. The world must never know! 

Justine, pale and dead-eyed, stood 
looking from the window of the bed 
chamber when the knock came at her 
door the next morning. She did not re- 
spond, she did not even turn her head, 
for her thoughts were of the night before 
and the life before that. Celeste softly 
opened the door and came to her side. 

"Justine/' she said, gently, almost in- 
audibly. Dark, heavy, despairing eyes 
were turned upon her and she feared for 
the success of her plan. 

"Am I to go to him now?" came the 
lifeless voice of the other. 

"Justine," said Celeste, taking a cold 
hand in her own, "we must understand 
each other, we must know the truth. I 
don't think anything that can happen 
now will hurt us ; we are dead to all pain. 
We must talk about — about ourselves." 

"I don't understand what it all means," 
moaned Justine. "Why can't I go to 
Jud? He is mine — he is mine, and — 

"But, Justine, dear, it is of this that 

we must talk. I — I thought he was nnne. 
My God, don't you see ? I have lived as 
his wife for months and — ^and I never 
knew until you came that I — that I— oh, 
don't you understand?" 

Justine's unwillingness to believe evil 
of Jud, despite all that had happened to 
prove the existence of a double life, was 
a barrier hard to break down, and it was 
not without long entreaties and explana- 
tions that Celeste made her see that her 
claim had some justification. At last 
these two women brought themselves 
down to the point from which the situa- 
tion could be seen plainly in all its un- 
happy colourings. Together in the dark- 
ness that he had cast about them they 
groped their way toward the light of un- 
derstandings ; as they went, the heart of 
each was bared to the other and both saw 
and sought to ease the pain the rents dis- 

There was no denying Justine's right 
to call Jud husband. Celeste saw her 
every hope slipping away as she listened 
to the story of the courtship and marriage 
in the little country lane. She knew now 
that she had never been a wife and she 
knew that she had to live all the rest of 
her life beneath an ugly shadow. What- 
ever were her thoughts of the man who 
had so basely wronged her, she kept them 
to her self. Not one word of reproach did 
she utter in the presence of the wife and 
mother. The consequences of his crime 
were hers to bear and*her only object in 
life now was to prevent others from shar- 
ing them with her, to prevent the world 
from knowing of their existence. If she 
loathed the memory of the man who had 
despoiled her .honour, she held that loath- 
ing secret. To the world, he was her hus- 
band and the world should see her mourn 
for him. 

Her proposition to Justine was at first 
indignantly rejected, but so skillfully did 
she paint the picture of her position in 
life as Jud had left it for her, that the 
tender, honest girl from the country fell 
completely under the influence of her 
pleading. Justine was made to see Jud's 
fault in all its blackness and was urged 
to share in the effort to protect his mem- 
ory. No one was to know of the double 
life he had led ; no one was to know of 
his crime ; no one was to curse his mem- 
ory; two women alone were to — forget, 
if they could. 



Between them it was agreed that in 
Chicago Justine was to appear as a cousin 
of the dead man and the funeral ob- 
sequies were to be conducted with the 
real wife in the background, the other as 
the deepest mourner. The body was to 
be taken afterwards to Clay township for 
burial and there Justine was to claim her 
dead, with Celeste posing as the good 
friend in the hour of direst trouble. This 
was the general plan, the minor but in- 
tricate details being entrusted to Celeste. 

"Here he was my husband and the 
world may never be the wiser," said she, 
taking the other to her grateful heart. 
"Down there he is yours and no one there 
must know how he has served you. You 
can save me, Justine, and I can shield 
him from the curses of your people. He 
will lie in the grave you dig for him away 
down there, and your friends may always 
look upon his headstone and say: *He 
was a good man. We all loved him.' It 
IS fair, Justine, and I will love you to my 
dying day for doing all this for me." 

"I love you," said Justine, and they 
went forth to play their unhappy parts. 

It was Celeste, keen and bold in her 
desperation, who wrote the letter to 'Gene 
Crawley, signing a fictitious name, Jus- 
tine looking over her shoulder with 
streaming eyes. It briefly told of a sud- 
den death and ended with the statement 
that a telegram would follow announc- 
ing the time of leaving Chicago with the 
body. The newspapers in the city told 
the story of the suicide, giving the cause 
as ill-health, and pictured the grief of the 
young widow. Celeste saw the reporters 
herself. Purposely, deliberately, she mis- 
informed them in many of the details re- 
garding his birthplace and his earlier life. 
This act of shrewdness on her part was 
calculated to mislead the people of Clay 
township and it succeeded. No one could 
connect the identity of the suicide with 
that of the youth who had gone out from 
that Indiana community long ago. 

How the two women lived throug hthe 

funeral service in S Place, was 

past all understanding. The real wife 
heard the sobs of the other and choked 
with the grief she was compelled to sup- 
press. The other wept but who knows 
whether the tears were tribute of love for 
the man over whom the clerg>'man said 
such gentle, hopeful words ? A dead man 
and two women knew the story that 

would have shocked the world. One 
could not speak, the others would not. 
And so he was eulogised. 

That night the two women and their 
dead left Chicago for Glenville. Their 
only companion was Dudley Sherrod, the 

Crawley's legacy. 

The people of Clay township were kept 
in the dark concerning the manner in 
which Jud came to his death. The letter 
to 'Gene merely announced that his sud- 
den death was due to a hemmorrhage, 
and another letter to Parson Marks from 
Justine's friend in the city bore the same 
news. Naturally Jud's friends believed 
that the hemorrhage was of the lungs, 
which inspired ninety per cent, of them 
to say that they had always regarded him 
as frail. Some went so far as to recall 
predictions made when he was a boy to 
the effect that he "wouldn't live to see 
thirty year." 

Crawley and Harve Crose drove to 
Glenville in Harve's wagon to meet the 
train, prepared to haul the casket to the 
cemetery where Mr. Marks was to con- 
duct short services. There was no hearse 
in Glenville, but there was a carpenter 
who buried people as a "side line." Rich 
people in the neighbourhood sent to an 
adjoining county seat for embalmers and 
undertakers ; Clay township buried its 
dead as it was able and saw fit. Justine 
would not permit Celeste to pay the ex- 
penses of the funeral at Jud's old home 
and she herself could not afford the lux- 
ury of a hearse and mourners' carriage. 
The arrangements were in the hands of 
Mr. Marks, Crawley, and Crose, and the 
details were of the simplest character. 

The aristocratic "two-seated rig" of 
David Strong and Martin Grimes's sur- 
rey were at the station to act as convey- 
ances for Justine and the minister and a 
select few. Dozens of buggies, buck- 
boards, and not a few spring-wagons fell 
in behind the "mourners' carriages" when 
the cortege left the depot platform, 
headed for the cemetery four miles away. 
Justine, her face hidden in a dense veil of 
black, occupied the back seat in David 
Strong's vehicle and the whole country- 
side longed to comfort her. By her side 
sat a pale, beautiful woman in a simple 



gown of black — the city friend the com- 
munity had heard so much about. The 
baby found a comfortable resting place 
in the capacious lap of Mrs. Strong, who 
sniffled continuously while her husband 
drove solemnly and imposingly through 
the streets of the village. The town 
looked on with sombre gaze and the 
country spoke in a respectful whisper. 
Sad was the home-coming of the Sher- 

The long procession, headed by the 
wagon containing the casket, wound its 
slow way out into the country, through 
the winter-clean lane, past the house in 
which Jud and Justine were married, and 
up to the gate of the dilapidated, weather- 
worn **burying-ground*' on the hill. In 
oppressive silence, the throng crowded 
over and about the weed-covered graves 
in the ill-kept little cemetery to witness 
every movement in connection with the 
ceremony. They saw the casket lifted 
from the wagon-bed by six young men 
and they opened a pathway from the gate 
to the grave through which the pall-bear- 
ers passed with heavy tread ; they saw the 
long black box in which Dudley Sherrod 
had come home lowered into the clay- 
colored gulf ; they saw Justine, moaning 
as she stood between old Mrs. Crane and 
the stranger from the city ; but they could 
not see the heart of that white-faced 
stranger who looked with tear-dimmed 
eyes into the grave at her feet. 

Justine's grief was pitiful. Not a man, 
woman or child in that assemblage but 
shed tears of genuine sympathy. The 
men and women who had gathered at the 
pastor's home not many months before to 
condemn her, now stood among the 
graves and wept with her. Not a few 
cast curious eyes upon the fair stranger 
and went away to say afterwards that 
she was the kind of a friend to have. 

The choir of the little church sang sev- 
eral hymns from books that Jud and Jus- 
tine had used in days gone by. Heads 
were bared in the biting aiar and no man 
was there who did not do full honour to 
Jud Sherrod, the goodliest boy the town- 
ship had ever produced. The grief of the 
people was honest. Mr. Marks, inspired 
by the opportunity, delivered such a dis- 
course on the goodness, the nobility of the 
young man that the community, with one 
voice, proclaimed it to be a masterpiece 
of oratory. 

"And to this devoted young wife; for 
whom he struggled so manfully, so loyal- 
ly up to the very hour of his taking away, 
God gives his boundless pity and will ex- 
tend His divinest help. Dudley Sherrod, 
our departed brother, was the soul of 
honour. He loved his home and the mis- 
tress of it second only to his Maker. I 
voice what is known to the world at large 
when I sav that never lived there a man 
whose heart was more thoroughly given 
over to the keeping of woman. And she 
loved and revered him and we see her in- 
consolable, bereft of all earthly joy. We 
pray God that she may see the brightness 
beyond this cloud that He has in His 
wisdom thrown around her. And we 
pray for the life, the soul of this baby boy 
who lies fatherless in this— er — this cold 
world. He will never know the love of a 
father. We all glory in the privilege of 
having known this true, honest Christian 
man, a man, whose life bore not a single 
blemish. His life was an example to all 
mankind. Oh, ye who listen to my words 
in this sad hour, strive to emulate his ex- 
ample. Do ye as he has done, live the 
life he has lived. How many of us are 
there who might have lived as he — er — 
did — if we but had the courage to follow 
the impulses of the soul. He has gone to 
his reward." 

Just before the shades of night fell 
across the grief-ridden community, Jus- 
tine escaped the kind ministrations of 
Mrs. Crane, Mrs. Hardesty, Mrs. Bolten, 
and other good dames who had followed 
her to the cottage after the chill services 
in the cemetery for the purpose of com- 
forting her. They had gone to the cot- 
tage with red eyes, choking whispers, and 
hands eager to lift her up, and she was 
trying to avoid these good offices. She 
crept into the bleak little room upstairs 
to which Celeste had long since fled to 
find solitude for her broken heart. 

Celeste was stretched upon the bed, 
face downward, and her slim body was 
as still as Jud's had been. The feeling of 
dread in Justine's heart was not dispelled 
until her hands touched the warm cheek 
and her ear caught the sound of a faint, 
tear-choked sigh. 

"It is I, Celeste," she said, gently. 
"Won't you let me hold you in my arms ? 
See ! I am strong again and I must take 
some one to my heart. It seems so empty. 



so dead, so cold. You don't hate me for 
this day, do you?" 

Celeste turned her face to the girl 
above and stretched forth her hand. 

"I love you, Justine," she sobbed, and 
their wet faces were pressed close to- 
gether on the same pillow. After many 
mintues she asked abruptly : "What are 
you going to do, Justine?" 

"Do?" asked the other, blankly. "I 
don't know. I haven't thought." 

"You will not stay here, you cannot 
stay here where — where — " 

"But where can I go? What do you 
mean ?" 

"I want to be with you always — I want 
to be near his — your boy," said the other. 
"Oh, Justine, I must have some one to 
love, I must have some one to love me. 
Don't you see, can't you see ? I want you 
to love me and I want his boy to love me. 
You — ^>'ou cannot stay here — you shall 
not stay here and suffer alone; you must 
not bear it all alone. We took the blow 
together, dearest Justine ; let us bear it to- 
gether, let us live through it together." 

And so it was that the women Jud 
Sherrod had made happy and unhappy in 
his brief, misguided life, found a vacant 
place each in the heart of the other and 
filled that place with the love that could 
not be dishonoured. It was a long time 
before Justine could fully comprehend the 
extent of the other's proposition and it 
was much longer before she was won 
over by almost abject pleading on the 
part of the wretched, lonely girl who had 
been wife in name only. 

Celeste convinced Justine that she was 
entitled to all that Jud had left as a 
legacy; she deliberately classified herself 
as a part of his estate, an article among 
his goods and chattels, and as such she 
belonged to his widow and heir. The 

home in S Place was, by right of 

law, Justine's, argued the pleader, and all 
that Jud had died possessed of was in 
that house. So persistent was she in the 
desire to obtain her end that she 
triumphed over Justine's objections. It 
was settled that thev were to live to- 
gether, travel together so long as both 
found the union agreeable. 

Celeste's plan included a long stay in 
Europe, a complete flight from all that 
had been laid bare and waste in the world 
they had known with him. In two weeks 
they were to sail and there was no time 

set for their return. Justine's most diffi- 
cult task was to be performed in the in- 
terim. It was to be the rewarding of 
Eugene Crawley. 

She had seen him at the graveside, 
standing directly opposite her across the 
narrow opening in the ground. The pal- 
lor of his face was so marked even she 
had observed it. He had not raised his 
eyes to look at her, but she had seen his 
chest rise and fall. 

The third day after the funeral she 
faced Crawley in the barnlot. With Ce- 
leste she was to leave that evening for 
Chicago and the time had come for set- 
tlement. She stood near the little gate 
that led to the barnlot and he approached 
slowly, uncertain as to the propriety of 
addressing this woman in grief. It was 
to be his first word to her since he said 
good-bye on the day that took her to 
Chicago with his money in her purse, the 
price of his horses. He had staked his 
all to give her the means to find Sherrod 
and she had found him. 

" 'Gene, I am going away," she said, 
extending her hand as he came up. 

"Going away ?" he repeated, blankly. 

"Yes. Miss Wood has asked me to ac- 
company her to Europe and — and I am 

He was silent for a long time, his dazed 
eyes looking past her as if they were 

"That's — that's a long ways to go, Jus- 
tine," he said, at last, and his voice was 
husky. The broad hand which had held 
hers for an instant, shook as he laid it on 
the gate post. 

"It is very good of her, 'Gene, and I 
love her so much," she said. She saw 
again that love was not dead in his heart 
and the revelation frightened her. "You 
have been so good to me, 'Gene, and I 
don't know how I am ever to repay you," 
she hurried on, eager to pass the crisis. 

"You — you c'n pay mc in your own 
way an' in your own time," he said, look- 
ing intently at the ground, uncertain of 
his own meaning. 

"We leave to-night," she said, "and I 
must not go away without — without set- 
tling with you." 

"Settlin' with me," he echoed. There 
was no passing over the bitterness in his 
voice. "You are goin' to-night? Good 
God — " he burst out, but the new habit 
of self repression was strong. "I beg your 



pardon, Justine," he went on, a moment 
later. "To-night?" 

"Mr. Strong will take us to the train 
at six o'clock," she said. She had not 
looked for so much emotion. " 'Gene, I 
owe you so much that I don't see how I 
am ever to pay you. Not only is it money 
that I owe, but gratitude. I have thought 
it all out, 'Gene, and there is only one way 
in which I can pay the smallest part of 
my debt, for the debt of gratitude can 
never be paid. I have sent for 'Squire 
Rawlings and — and, 'Gene, I know you 
won't misunderstand me— I am going to 
ask you to accept this farm from me, to 
be yours and yours only. The 'Squire 
will bring the deed and — " 

"Justine!" he exclaimed, looking her 
full in the eyes. "You wouldn't do that 
— ^you don't mean that!" The darkest 
pain that she had ever seen was in his 

"You deserve it and more — " she be- 
gan, shrinking before his gaze. He held 
up his hand piteously and turned his face 
away, and she could see his struggle for 
control. At last he turned to her, his face 
white and drawn, his eyes steady, his 
voice less husky than before. 

"You must never say such a thing to 
me ag'in, Justine. I know you meant all 
right an' you thought I'd be satisfied with 
the bargain, but you — you musn't offer 
to pay me ag'in. You've paid me all 
that's comin' to me, you've paid me by 
makin' a good man of me, that's what 
you've done. I'd die before I'd take this — 
this land o* yourn an' that little boy's. 
You're mighty good an' — an' — oh, can't 
you see it's no use in me tryin' to talk 
about it? Wait! You was about to be- 
gin beggin' me to take it. I want to ast 
you as the greatest favour you ever done 
for me, don't say it. Don't say it. I 
can't stand it, Justine !" 

"Forgive me, 'Gene, forgive me," she 
said, tears streaming down her cheeks. 
"You deserve more than I can ever give 
you, dear friend. I did not mean to hurt 
you — " 

"It's all over, so let's say no more about 
it," he said, breathing deeply and throw- 
ing up his head. "I'll take keer o' your 
farm while you're gone, Justine, an' it'll 
be here in good order when you're ready 
to come back to it. It'll be kept in good 
shape for the boy. Don't you ever worry 
about the place. It's your'n an' I'll take 

good care of it for you. You're goin' to 
ketch the evenin' train?" 

"Yes/' she said, gently, "and I may be 
gone for a long time, 'Gene." 

*; Well," he said with difficulty, "I guess 
we'd better say good — good-bye. You've 
lots to do in the house an' I want to do 
some work in the wagon-shed. Good- 
bye, Justine; be — be good to yourself." 
It was the greatest battle that rough 
'Gene Crawley had ever waged, but he 
came out of it without a scar to be 
ashamed of. 

"I want to ask you to — ^to look after 
Jud's grave, 'Gene," she said, her hand 
in his. "There is no one else I can ask, 
and I want it kept better — ^better than the 
rest up there. Will you see to it for 

"I'll— I'll 'tend to it for you, Justine," 
he said, but his face went pale. 

For a full minute she looked, speech- 
less, upon the white, averted face of the 
man whose love was going to its death 
so bravely, and a great warmth crept into 
her cold veins — a warmth bom in a 
strange new tenderness that went out to 
him. A sudden, sharp contraction of the 
heart told her as plainly as though the 
message had come in words that the love 
in this man's heart would never die, never 
falter. Somehow, the drear, chill pros- 
pect grew softer, warmer in the discovery 
that Love could still live in this dead, ugly 
world, that after all fires were burning 
kindly for her. There was a thrill in her 
voice as she murmured, brokenly : 

"Good-bye, 'Gene, and God bless and 
keep you." 

"Good-bye," he responded, releasing 
her hand. He did not raise his eyes until 
the door of the cottage closed after her. 

At dusk David Strong drove away 
from the little house in the lane, and the 
Sherrods went with him. 'Gene Crawley 
stood in the shadow of the barn, his hope- 
less eyes fastened on the vehicle until it 
was lost among the trees. 

A sharp, choking sound came from his 
throat as he turned those dark, hungry 
eyes from the purple haze that screened 
the carriage from view. About him 
stretched the poor little farm, as dead as 
his hopes; at his back stood the almost 
empty barn ; yonder was the deserted 
house from which no gleam of light 

He was alone. There was nothing left 



but the lifeless, unkind shadows. Slowly 
he strode to the little gate through which 
she had passed. His hands closed over 
the pickets tenderly and then his lips were 
pressed to the latch her fingers had 
touched in closing the gate perhaps for 
the last time — closing it with him a 

prisoner until she chose to come back and 
release him. 

A moment later his face dropped to 
his arms as they rested on the post and 
he sobbed as though his heart would 



New York. 
The Silver Poppy. By Arthur Stringer. 

Mr. Stringer has become well known 
through his contributions to various 
periodicals and through his recently pub- 
lished book of verse. In this novel by 
him a literary vampire and a young Eng- 
lishman, who has not found himself, play 
the chief parts in a clever romance. This 
book is reviewed in another column. 

Animal Studies. A Text-Book of Ele- 
mentary Zoology. By David Starr Jor- 
don, Vernon Lyman Kellogg, and Har- 
old Heath. 

One of the series of Twentieth Century 
Text-Books, Intended primarily lor use in 
high schools and colleges, and it treats of 
the structure and habits of fossil animals 
with especial recard to their natural his- 
tory rather than to their morphology. 

The British Nation. A History. By 
George M. Wrong. M.A., Professor of 
History in the University of Toronto. 
One of the Twentielh Century Text- 
Books. It is written somewhat after the 
fashion of Green's "Short History of the 
English People." that Is. with due atten- 
tion to social life as one of the important 
phases of the nation's growth. 
Essays and Addresses. By Jules Cam- 
bnn, Ambassador of France to the 
United Stales. 

The essays in this volume include, 
amonft others, one upon "Pierre I.oti's 
Iceland Fisherman." which v ■ ■ ■■ 

<: that 

Story. Among the addresses are "A True 
View of France." delivered in New York, 
April i8, igoo; the address given by M. 
Cambon at the unveiling of the statue of 

Rochambeau at Washington last year; 
and his speech at the farewell banquet 
which was tendered him on the eve of his 
departure from this country. 

Memoirs of the Life of the Late John 
Mytton, Esq. By Nimrod. With Nu- 
merous Illustrations by Henry Aiken 
and T. J. Rawlins. 

This quaint little book is a reprint of 
one which was Issued In the year 1837 by 
Rudolph Ackermann, of Londot 

subject of the Memoirs was 

an English 

country gentleman of eccer 

itric habits, 

and the siory of his exploits 

in hunting. 

racing and driving makes so: 

me amusing 


The Tour of Dr. Syntax in Search of the 
Picturesque. A Poem. With Thirty- 
One Coloured Illustrations by Thomas 
This book also is reprinted, with the 

Memoirs of George Elers, Captain in 
the Twelfth Regiment of Foot (1777- 
1842). To which are added Correspond- 
ence and Other Papers, with Genealogy 
and Notes. Edited from the Original 
MSS. by Lord Monson and George 
Leveson Gower. 

The manuscripts of these Memoirs 
were found in the library at Burton Hall 
by Mr. George Leveson Gower. a rela- 
tive of Lord Munson. They give an inter- 
esting picture of life in society and in the 
army at the end of the eighteenth and at 
the beginning of the nineteenth centuries. 
Anthony Wayne. By John R. Spears. 

A new volume in the Series of Historic 
Lives which the Appletons are bringing 
out in a uniform edition. Wayne, some- 



times called "Mad Anthony," was born in 
1745 and died in 1796. 

The Law of Life. By Anna McCIurc 

A novel which deals with a somewhat 
new feature in fiction. Miss ShoU gives 
a picture of life as she has seen it in a 
large university, and she brings a per- 
sonal knowledge to the subject. The 
book is noticed elsewhere in this number. 

Practical Journalism. By Edwin L. Shu- 

A manual of the best newspaper meth- 
ods by the author of "Steps Into Journal- 
ism/' which aims to "meet the needs, both 
of those who seek to enter journalism and 
of those who have already embarked on a 
newspaper career. The book is also in- 
tended as an aid to students in certain 
collegiate course and in schools of jour- 
nalism." The book should have a timely 
interest, as the founding of a College of 
Journalism is at present one of the topics 
of conversation. 

American Railway Transportation. By 
Emory R. Johnson. 

The fourth volume in Appleton*s Busi- 
ness Series, the previous books being 
"The Work of Wall Street," "Funds and 
Their Uses," and "Trust Finance." Pro- 
fessor Johnson is connected with the 
Wharton School of Finance of the Uni- 
versity of Pennsylvania. 

Central Europe. By Joseph Partsch. 

A new volume in the Appleton's World 
Series, "The Regions of the World," by 
the Professor of Geography in the Uni- 
versity of Breslau. Miss Clementina 
Black has translated the work from the 

A History of Arabic Literature. By Cle- 
ment Huart. 

In an editorial preface by Edmund 
Gosse, he says: "This volume has been 
written at my invitation for this series 
of Short Histories of the Literatures of 
the World, and has been translated from 
the author's manuscript by Lady Mary 
Lloyd." Professor Huart is one of the 
best known of the living Orientalists. 

The Career Triumphant. By Henry B. 

A novel. The heroine is a young Vir- 
ginian, and her "career triumphant" leads 
her to the stage. Mr. Boone is co-author 
with Mr. Kenneth Brown of "Eastcover 
Court House" and "The Redfields Suc- 

Baker and Taylor Company: 

R. F. and H. L. Doherty on Lawn Tennis. 

The Dohertys* successes in the interna- 
tional tennis championship contests in 
this country are a matter of very recent 
history. Their book is intended especial- 
ly for would-be learners of the game, 
though there is much in it that will prove 

ot interest to th9$e who silready play. It 

has many illustrations, showing the vari- 
ous strokes, ways of holding the racket, 

Book-Lover Press: 

The Red-Keggers. By Eugene Thwing. 

A story of a lumbering and farming 
community during the period from 1868- 
69 to 1871. A member of the editorial 
staff of the Century Dictionary says: "A 
great story — intensely interesting, true to 
life, and a phase of life never previously 

Crowell and Company: 

Parsifal. A Mystical Drama by Rich- 
ard Wagner. Retold in the Spirit of 
the Bayreuth Interpretation by Oliver 

Lovers of opera should welcome this 
English version of Parsifal, and particu- 
larly at the present time, when it is cre- 
ating considerable discussion. The vol- 
ume contains five illustrations by Franz 
Stassen and special type designs in black 
and red. A review by Mr. Lewis M. Isaacs 
appears elsewhere in this issue. 

Dodd> Mead and Company: 

An April Princess. By Constance Smed- 

A light novel by an Englishwoman. 
Somebody says of it: "There has been 
nothing like it since Mr. Anthony Hope's 
"Dolly Dialogues." The book is reviewed 
elsewhere in this number. 

The Yellow Crayon. By E. Phillips Op- 

Mr. Oppenheim is a prolific writer. 
Within the last few months he has writ- 
ten two successful books, "The Prince of 
Sinners" and "The Traitors." The pres- 
ent novel is founded upon the story of a 
secret society called "The Order of the 
Yellow Crayon," which was composed of 
the nobles of the earth, and originally 
instituted for united action against social- 
ists and anarchists. The story is full of 
adventure and mystery, with many of the 
scenes laid in well-known hotels and res- 
taurants in New York. 

The Sherrods. By George Barr Mc- 


A review of Mr. McCutcheon's novel 
will appear in a later number of The 
Bookman. Then we shall feel at liberty 
to discuss the story impartially. As "The 
Sherrods" is still running serially in this 
magazine our reasons for declining to 
express any opinion whatever must be 
perfectly obvious. 

Doubleday, Page and Company: 

Monsigny. By Justus Miles Forman. 

A story which appeared in the Smart 
Set a few months ago. The novel has a 
foreign setting, the Chateau Monsigny 
being situated near Versailles. Mr. For- 

man's novels are pleasantly readable. A 



review of this book appears elsewhere in 
this number. 


The MS. In a Red Box. Anonymous. . 

The mystery in connection with the 
receipt of this manuscript by the publish- 
ers is being used as an advertising fea- 
ture. It is said that the publishers re- 
ceived the manuscript in a red box and 
that they have actually no idea who the 
author is. Whether this is a clever adver- 
tising dodge or not one cannot say at 
the present moment. 

The Motor Book. By R. J. Mccredy. 

A small book of interest to persons 
who desire to learn something about mo- 
tor cars. The writer is an authority on 
this subject, being editor of **The Motor 
News" and "The Dictionary of Motor- 
ing," both of which are published in 


• • • 

Songs of Dreams. By Ethel Clifford. 

A book of verse which deserves much 
more than a passing notice. The contents 
are divided thus: "Songs Out of Doors," 
"Songs in the Night," "Songs in Remem- 
brance," "Songs of Love," "Songs in Imi- 
tation," "Songs of Dreams." The poems 
are written by an Englishwoman, many 
of them having appeared in the West- 
minster Gazette and the Pall Mall Ga- 

Life in the Mercantile Marine. By 
Charles Protheroe. 

In these sketches of nautical life the 
author, writing in the first person, gives 
an account of the conditions which pre- 
vail in the lives of the "men who go down 
to the sea in ships." 

Masters of English Landscape Painting. 
J. S. Cotman. David Cox, Peter de 
Wint. Edited by Charles Holme. 

A special summer number of the Inter- 
national Studio which contains many 
beautiful reproductions of the work of 
the three painters discussed. 

The Tree Book. By Mary Rowles Jarvis. 

The third volume in the Country 
Handbooks series, edited by Harry Rob- 
erts. "A life-long love of trees, and much 
lore concerning them, gleaned from for- 
esters, charcoal burners, and other men 
of the woods . . . are the writer's chief 
qualifications for the making of this tree 

A Girl's Life in a Hunting Country. By 

A story with an English setting, writ- 
ten in the first person. 

The House on the Sands. By Charles 

A new novel by the author of "The 
Column." The house on the sands is oc- 
cupied by a man and a woman who have 
decided to experiment with PJatonism. 

The man is an ascetic, and for a time the 
woman believes as he does. But when a 
change comes over her and new interests 
enter her life sufficient good material is 
provided for an interesting novel. 

Eleanor Dayton. By Nathaniel Stephen- 

A new novel by the author of "The 
Beautiful Mrs. Moulton." The scenes of 
the story shift from the Court of Louis 
Napoleon to cities in the United States. 
A review appears elsewhere in this num- 

Life Publishing Company: 

Cirillo. By Effie Douglas Putnam. 

A story, the scene of which is laid in 
Florence, and which has a musical atmos- 
phere. The author is a harpist by pro- 
fession, living in Paris, and this is her 
first novel. 

New Harlem Publishing Company: 

New Harlem Past and Present. By Carl 
Horton Pierce, William Pennington 
Toler, and Harmon de Pau Nutting. 

According to the title page this is the 
story of an amazing civic wrong, now at 
last to be righted, with a review of the 
principles of law involved in the recovery 
of the Harlem Lands. The purpose of 
the book is "to prove that the town of 
New Harlem has not been erased from 
the map; that there is not only a *past,' 
but a 'present, New Harlem.'" The vol- 
ume contains many illustrations. 

Ogilvie Publishing Company: 

The Monarch Billionaire. By Morrison 
I. Swift. 

A novel dealing largely with the condi- 
tions existing between the very rich man 
and the laborer. Giles Wyndon, the bil- 
lionaire, and his daughter, Margaret, are 
the principal characters. 

Outlook Company: 

Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania 
to the Inhabitants of the British Col- 
onies. By John Dickinson. With an 
Historical Introduction by R. T. H. 

The first of these "Letters" made their 
appearance in the Pennsylvania Chronicle 
and Universal Advertiser, November 30- 
Dccember 3, 1767. A letter followed for 
twelve successive weeks, and such was 
their popularity that they were reprinted 
in almost all the Colonial newspapers. 
The present volume is a large one. and 
is bound in blue paper boards with vel- 
lum backs, after the style of the original 

Pott and Company: 

The Eastward Road. By Jeannette Bliss 

A small book of poems, some of the 
poems having appeared in Harper's, 



Everybody's Magazine, and The Book- 

Putnam's Sons: 

Old Paths and Lej?ends of New England. 
By Katherine M. Abbott. 

Miss Abbott is the author of the little 
paper-bound book "Trolley Trips," which 
described the old New England haunts 
that may be reached by trolley. In this 
more pretentious work she has not lim- 
ited her wanderings to the trolley track, 
but has penetrated to out-of-the-way 
places, visiting old homesteads and spots 
of historic interest in Massachusetts, 
Rhode Island and New Hampshire. The 
book is well bound and profusely illus- 

The Shadow of Victory. By Myrtle Reed. 

A new novel by the author of "Laven- 
der and Old Lace." The action of the 
present story takes place among the stir- 
ring scenes of an early Western trading 
post, and it bears the sub-title "A Ro- 
mance of Fort Dearborn." 

Rains Company: 

The Hasheesh Eater. By Fitzhugh Lud- 

A reprint of a book originally published 
in 1857. It is not fiction, but the personal 
experiences of the author while using the 
drug, Hasheesh, or Indian Hemp. 


The Diary of John Evelyn, Esquire, 
F.R.S. Edited by William Bray. 

An imported book, bound in limp 
leather. Mr. Evelyn lived in the times of 
King Charles I., Oliver Cromwell, King 
Charles II., King James II., and King 
William, and it was his custom to make 
notes of such events as he thought worth 

Sir David Wilkie, R.A. By William 

This is also an imported volume, illus- 
trated with twenty plates after Wilkie 
and a photogravure frontispiece. The 
preface speaks of the work of this Scotch 
artist as being of interest to the whole 
art-loving public. "It is probably at the 
present day not sufficiently well recoj?- 
nised how great was the homage uni- 
versally paid to his genius in the earlier 
part of the nineteenth century, and how 
he was held to be representative of Brit- 
ish art in general as well as of that of the 
land of his birth." 

Rossetti Papers. 1862 to 1870. A Com- 
pilation by William Michael Rossetti. 

In 1899 the compiler of this volume 
brought out two separate books. "Ruskin, 
Rossetti, Pr«Traphaelitism." and "Prrera- 
phaelite Diaries and Letters." They con- 
sisted of letters, journals, etc., and were 
intended to show forth the career of 
Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The record was 
carried up to February, 1862, while in 

the present volume it is brought up to 
April, 1870. The material in the present 
book, which is an imported one, is ar- 
ranged chronologically. 

Lawn Tennis at Home and Abroad. Ed- 
ited by A. Wallis Myers, with Contribu- 
tions by H. S. Mahony, H. S. Scribner, 
G. W. Hillyard, Mrs. Sterry, and other 
Authorities on the Game. 

This book gives a pretty good idea of 
what a book on a certain sport should be. 
It is comprehensive and entertaining and 
excellently .illustrated. In it the subject 
has been covered in a broader way than 
has been done before. We have, how- 
ever, just one criticism to make. The 
volume purports to treat of Lawn Tennis 
"at home and abroad." The title should 
read "Abroad and at Home," for the 
marked precedence given the English side 
of the game is one unwarranted, even 
when one takes into consideration the 
remarkable showing of the English chal- 
lengers during the past summer. Of 
course as this is an imported book, this 
precedent is understood by those who 
realise the fact. But bearing the imprint 
of an American house the volume in this 
respect will puzzle the average American 
reader. And it is in his behalf that we 
offer the criticism. 

A Search for the Masked Tawareks. By 
W. J. Harding King. (Imported.) 

A book describing a race of marauding 
nomads who live in the trackless wastes 
of the Sahara, south of Algeria. On ac- 
count of their impious character, says the 
author, they have been named by the 
Arabs "Tawarek," or "Godforsaken." 
The text is accompanied by over forty 

The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come. 
By John Fox, Jr. 

As a serial in Scribner's Magazine this 
story has attracted favourable comment. 
The story pictures boy life among the 
Kentucky mountaineers, and life at a 
blue-grass college in the days before the 
war. Mr. Fox also shows how Kentucky 
was affected by the Civil War. A review 
appears elsewhere in the present issue. 

The Vagabond. By Frederick Palmer. 

The first novel of a man who has al- 
ready become known as a newspaper 
correspondent and as a writer of short 
stories. It is a Civil War story, and has 
been running serially in Collier's Weekly. 

A Doctor of Philosophy. By Cyrus 

Townsend Brady. 

A love story which will not please those 
readers who demand the often inevitable 
"happy ending." The doctor of philoso- 
phy is a woman, and a taint of negro 
blood adds a tragic element to the story. 
A further notice of it appears elsewhere 
in this issue. 

Travels of Marco Polo. In Two Vol- 



The book of StT Marco Polo, the Vene- 
tian, concerning the kingdoms and mar- 
vels of the East. Translated and edited, 
with notes, by Colonel Sir Henry Yule, 
R.E., C.B., K.C.S.I. The third edition of 
this work has been revised throughout in 
the light of recent discoveries by Henri 
Cordier of Paris. 

A Song of Speed. By William Ernest 

The Messrs. Scribner have imported 
this poem of Mr. Henley's, and have 
brought it out in paper covers. It is 
dedicated to Mr. Alfred Harmsworth, but 
it might appropriately have been dedi- 
cated to all automobilists. 

Smart Set Publishing Company: 

The Middle Course. By Poultney Bige- 

An ultra modern novel. The lady of 
the frontispiece is described as being 
"dressed in the fashion of the day-after- 
to-morrow — for which she did not mean 
to pay till the day after that." 

Miss Sylvester's Marriage. By Cecil 

A novel, the reading of which will not 
overtax the brain. There is a great deal 
about Miss Sylvester and her husband, 
also a good deal about Miss Sylvester's 
aunt, who is described as being "non-irri- 
tant, non-astringent." 

Hearts Aflame. By Louise Winter. 

A story which depicts the efforts of a 
society leader to re-establish in the social 
world a woman friend who has been 
sensationally divorced. The illustrations 
in the book are by Archie Gunn. 

Street and Smith: 

Conversations of a Chorus Girl. By Roy 
L. McCardell. 

This particular chorus girl is described 
as a "peroxide blonde," and her "conver- 
sations," in which the interlocutor is a 
dramatic editor, may be said to be of the 
peroxide type also. They tell of her ex- 
periences "on the road," of her various 
flirtations, and other things dear to the 
heart of the chorus girl. 

Walker-Ellerson Publishing Company: 

The Curse of Caste. By N. J. W. Le 

A novel dedicated to the President. 
The author has much to say about the 
negro question, and for his frontispiece 
he has chosen the picture of a negro, with 
the following caption "I alius 'low'd dat 
it was bad business to free the nigger 
'thout making him white." 

Werner Publishing Company: 

The Exact Science of Health. By Robert 
Walter, M.D. Volume I.: Principles. 

The author of this book holds that the 
care of the body and the preservation of 
the vital forces may be developed into a 

science, determined by laws as exact as 
those which control the movements of 
the stars. 


Dana Estes and Company: 

Whitewash. A Novel. By Ethel Watts 

"Whitewash" first appeared in The 
Smart Set. The scene is laid in New 
York, the characters are members of 
fashionable society, and a mysterious rob- 
bery and the exposure of a clever crimi- 
nal furnish the main motive. 

The Millionaire's Son. By Anna Robe- 
son Brown. 

This novel, to quote the publishers, "is 
a study in temperament and heredity, and 
a satire on social conditions in America." 
A further notice of this book appears 
elsewhere in this issue. 

Ginn and Company: 

Agriculture for Beginners. By Charles 
William Burkett, Frank Lincoln Stev- 
ens, and Daniel Harvey Hill. 

The authors of this book, professors 
respectively of agriculture, biology and 
English in the North Carolina College 
of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts, have 
collaborated in the belief that there is no 
line of separation between the science of 
agriculture and the practical art, and that 
the child intended for the farm cannot 
too early be taught the fundamental 
truths of farming. 

The Jones First Reader. 
The Jones Second Reader. 
The Jones Third Reader. 
The Jones Fourth Reader. 
The Jones Fifth Reader. 

These are school books by L. H. Jones, 
president of the Michigan State Normal 
College. The series covers the reading 
work of the eight grades of the elemen- 
tary schools. 

Houghton, MifBin and Company: 

Zut and Other Parisians. By Guy Wet- 
more Carryl. 

A collection of short stories dealing, as 
the title suggests, with Paris and Pari- 

Lothrop Publishing Company: 

Gorgo. By Charles K. Gaines, Ph.D. 

A romance of Old Athens by the Pro- 
fessor of Greek in St. Lawrence Uni- 
versity. Gorgo is the daughter of a 
Spartan chief, reared in Laconia, and her 
lover is a young Athenian. The story 
abounds in battle scenes. 

Mutual Book Company: 

The Knocker. By Frank C. Voorhies. 
Illustrated by E. B. Bird. 

A book intended to be funny. Here is 
a typical quotation: "A knocker is a sour- 
ball who thinks he knows it all. . . . Why 



does a knocker knock? Because he has 
dyspepsia and feels like a soft-shelled 

Page and Company: 

The Red Triangle. By Arthur Morrison. 

This is a detective story, and a fairly 
good one, as detective stories go. Fur- 
ther mention of this is made in the 
Chronicle and Comment of the present 

Laird and Lee: 

The New Tokology. Mother and Child 
Culture. By Eli F. Rrown, M.S., M.D., 
and Joseph H. Greer, M.D. 

A book which gives considerable in- 
formation about the vital functions of the 
body and which also contains a dictionary 
of medical terms. There are numerous 
instructions for the prevention or the cure 
of disease, and special illustrations have 
been made by Dr. Ruth Blake. 

Towards the Rising Sun. A Story of 
Travel and Adventure. By Sigmutid 

An account of the author's trip through 
the Orient, beginning at Constantinople, 
leading to Asia Minor, Greece, and Egypt, 
and extending from there through the 
Red Sea to Ceylon, Calcutta, and over- 
land through Central India to Bombay. 

Webster's New Standard Dictionary of 
the English Language. Based on the 
most eminent Authorities by E. T. Roe, 
LL.B., and Professor O. H. L. Schwetz- 
ky, Editor. 

This is a concise lexicon, bound in half 
leather, and containing, besides defini- 
tions and pronunciations of words and 
the various departments of the regulation 
dictionary, several cyclopaedic features 
and a number of attractive coloured plates 
and maps. 

Open Court Publishing Company: 

Babel and Bible. Two Lectures on the 
Significance of Assyriological Research 
for Religion. Embodying also the Most 
Important Criticisms and the Author's 
Replies. By Dr. Friedrich Delitzsch. 
Translated from the German by 
Thomas J. McCormack and W. H. Car- 

Dr. Delitzsch is Professor of Assyri- 
ology in the University of Berlin, and 
these lectures were delivered under the 
auspices of the German Oriental Society. 


Hadley Ballads. By Julia Taft Bayne. 

A small book of poems. "Her sons and 
daughters have gathered these," says the 
introduction, "from the New England 
Magazine, the Independent, the Youth's 
Companion, St. Nicholas. Springfield Re- 
publican, and Hartford Courant, into this 
little volume, which they present to their 
mother as a birthday gift, knowing also 
that it will give pleasure to her many 

The Mysteries of Mithra. By Franz Cu- 

A work translated from the second re- 
vised French edition by Thomas J. Mc- 
Cormack. It treats of the origin and 
history of the Mithraic religion, and is 
accompanied by a number of illustrations. 
The author, Franz Cumont, is Professor 
in the University of Ghent, Belgium. 

Stone and Company: 

My Friend Annabel Lee. By Mary Mac- 

This is very much the sort of book that 
one might expect from Mary Maclane. 

Waite and Company: 

Homophonic Conversations in English, 
German, French and Italian. Being a 
Natural Aid to the Memory in Learning 
those Languages. By C. B. and C. V. 

A small book based upon the similarity 
in sound and in signification of the prin- 
cipal words used in the sentences which 
are chosen as examples. Nearly five hun- 
dred homophonic words are used, giving 
the form of the word in each language. 

Winona Publishing Company: 

The Bible in Shakespeare. By William 

A study of the relationship of the works 
of William Shakespeare to the Bible, in 
which the author undertakes to prove, by 
numerous parallel passages, quotations, 
and references, that Shakespeare — not- 
withstanding all opinions to the contrary 
— was a true Christian. 

» Philadelphia. 

Ferris and Leach: 

The Independence of the South Ameri- 
can Republics. A Study in Recognition 
and Foreign Policy. By Frederic L. 
Paxson, Fellow in History in the Uni- 
versity of Pennsylvania. 

The Monroe Doctrine has been, almost 
since the beginning of the last century, a 
vital question in American politics, and 
its history has never, so far as we know, 
been comprehensively presented in a 
single volume before. 


Consumption a Curable and Preventable 
Disease. What a Layman Should 
Know About It. By Lawrence F. 
Flick, M.D. 

A«sane and helpful little book on the 
subject of tuberculosis, which should help 
those who read it to understand what the 
disease is, and therefore to do much 
toward preventing its spread. 

Akron, Ohio. 
The Saalfield Publishing Company: 

The Man in the Camlet Cloak. By Carlen 



This is an historical novel, the plot 
being founded upon the conspiracy of 
Aaron Burr. It is put forth in the guise 
of "an old writing transcribed and ed- 

Under Mad Anthony's Banner. By James 
Ball Naylor. 

Mr. Naylor, author of "In the Days of 
St. Clair" and several other historical 
novels, has written a story founded upon 
the career of Gen. Anthony Wayne in 
the Northwest Territory. He dedicates 
his book, quite appropriately, to the mem- 
ory of the hero of its pages. 

Charleston, S. C. 

Walker, Evans and Cogswell Company: 

Life of John C. Calhoun. By Gustavus 
M. Pinckney. 

A sketch of the "Great Nullifier," giv- 
ing a brief biographical account of his 
life and work, but portraying him chiefly 
by means of extracts from his letters and 


Bobbs-Merrill Company: 

The Fortunes of Fifi. By Molly Elliot 

A sprightly romance of the early part 
of the nineteenth century, with the scenes 
laid in Paris. The story has been running 
serially. This book is noticed in another 

Ithaca, N. Y. 

Press of the Ithaca Democrat: 

The History of the Treman, Tremaine, 
Truman Family in America. By Eben- 
ezer Mack Treman and Murray E. 
Poole, D.C.L., LL.D. Two Volumes. 

This history appears in two massive 
volumes of over a thousand pages each. 
To those persons interested in genealogy 
it may be well to state that the history 
concerns itself with Joseph Truman of 
New London, Connecticut (1666); John 
Mack of Lyme, Connecticut (1680); Rich- 
ard Dey of New York City (1641); Cor- 
nelius Board of Boardville, New Jersey 
(1730); John Ayer of Newbury, Massa- 
chusetts (1635), and their descendants. 

Oxford, England. 

At the Clarenden Press: 

A History of the Peninsular War. By 
Charles Oman, M,A. 

This, the second volume of Professor 
Oman's exhaustive work, covers the 
ground from January to September of 
1809, that is, from the Battle of Corunna 
to the end of the Talavera Campaign. 

Pittsburg, Pa. 

Schools for Spirits. By E. M. Wood, 
D.D., LL.D. 

In this paper covered volume the au- 
thor touches upon theosophy, spiritual- 

ism, hypnotism, Dowieism, Mormonism, 
and Christian Science. "Having this 
book," announces its publishers, "you 
need nothing more on these subjects." 

San Francisco, CaL 

Elder and Company: 

Bachelor Bigotries. Compiled by an Old 
Maid and Approved by a Young Bache- 
lor. Illustrated by an ex-Bachelor. 
Published by a Young Married Man. 

The compilers of this little volume have 
made selections for every day in the year 
from the various writers who. at one time 
or another have turned cynical toward 


Of Both Worlds. By Herman Scheffauer. 

A book of poems dedicated to Ambrose 

Some Village Verse. By Master Emery. 

A small paper-covered book without a 
publisher's imprint. According to the 
frontispiece "Master Emery" is not so 
young as his verse would lead one to 
think. The title page bears this an- 
nouncement: "Notice! This edition is 
limited to five hundred copies." 



New books in order of demand as sold 
between July and August, 1903. 

We guarantee the authenticity of the fol- 
lowing lists, as supplied to us, each by lead- 
ing booksellers in the towns mentioned: 

New York, N. Y. 

1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. 

(Macmillan.) $1.50. 

2. The Call of the Wild. London. (Mac- 

millan. $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

5. Wings of the Morning. Tracy (Clode.) 


6. How Paris Amuses Itself. Smith. (Funk 

& Wagnalls.) $1.50 net. 

Atlanta, Ga. 

1. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. The Spenders. Wilson. (Lcthrop.) 


5. Four Feathers. Mason. (Macmillan.) 


6. Wee MacGreegor. Bell. (Harper.) $1.00 

Albany, N. Y. 

1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. The Call of the Wild. London. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 



4. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doublcday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

5. At the Time Appointed. Barbour. (Lip- 

pincott.) $1.50. 

6. The Under Dog. Smith. (Scribner.) 


Baltimore, Md. 

1. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

milljin.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. Pigs in Clover. Danby. (Lippincott.) 


5. Lightning Conductor. Williamson. (Holt 

& Co.) $1.50. 

Boston, Mass. 

1. The Call of the Wild. London. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

3. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

4. Philosophy Four. Wister. (Macmillan.) 


5. Prince of Sinners. Oppenhein. (Little, 

Brown.) $1.50. 

6. John Percyfield. Henderson. (Hough- 

ton, Mifflin.) $1.50. 

Buffalo, N. Y. 

1. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Main Chance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

5. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

6. The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

Cleveland, O. 

1. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. Peggy O'Neal. Lewis. (Drexel-Biddle.) 


4. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

5. The Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

6. At the Time Appointed. Barbour. (Lip- 

pincott.) $1.50. 

Cleveland, O. 

1. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

3. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Harper.) 


4. The Under Dog. Smith. (Scribner.) 


5. The Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

6. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Mcrrill.) $1.50. 

Dallas, Tex. 

I. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 
Page.) $1.50. 

2. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

3. The Main Chance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

4. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

5. The Virginian. Wister. (Macmillan.) 


6. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Harper.) 


Denver, Colo. 

1. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

2. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

3. The Main Chance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

4. Brewster's Millions. Greaves. (Stone.) 


5. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

6. Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

Indianapolis, Ind. 

1. The Main Chance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

2. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

3. The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

4. Under the Rose. Isham. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

5. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

6. Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch. 

Hegan-Rice. (Century.) $1.50. 

Kansas City, Mo. 

1. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. The Log of a Cowboy. Adams. (Hough- 

ton, Mifflin & Co.) $1.50. 

5. The Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

6. The Spenders. Wilson. (Lothrop.) $1.50. 

Los Angeles, CaL 

1. Anne Carmel. Overton. (Maomillan.) 


2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. Darrel of the Blessed Isles. Bacheller. 

(Lothrop.) $1.50. 

4. Gordon Keith. Page. (S«ribner.) $1.50. 

5. Under the Rose. Isham. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

6. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Harper.) 


Lousiville, Ky. 

1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. The Main Chance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. ^ 

5. Pigs in Clover. Danby. (Lippmcott.) 

6. The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs-Mcr- 

rill.) $1.50. 



Memphis, Tenn. 

1. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. Under the Rose. Isham. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

5. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Harper.) 


6. Journeys End. Forman. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

New Haven, Conn. 

1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

3. The Real Diary of a Real Boy. Shute. 

(Everett.) $1.00. 

4. The Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

5. Philosophy Four. Wister. (Macmillan.) 

50 cts. 

6. The Call of the Wild. London. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

New Orleans, La. 

1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. A Gentleman of the South. Brown. 

(Macmillan.) $1.50. 

3. The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

4. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

5. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Har- 

per.) $1.50. 

6. Gayarre's History of Louisiana. (Han- 

sell.) $10.00 net. 

Norfolk, Va. 

1. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doublcday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

4. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

5. Children of Destiny. Seavvell. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

6. The Main Chance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

Omaha, Neb. 

1. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. Such Things as Dreams Are Made of. 

Miller. (Lawrence.) $1.00. 

3. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

4. The Main CThance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

5. Darrel of the Blessed Isles. Bacheller. 

(Lothrop.) $1.50. 

6. The Under Dog. Smith. (Scribner.) 


Pittsburg, Pa. 

1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. The Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. The Call of the Wild. London. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

5. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

6. Log of a Cowboy. Adams. (Houghton- 

Mifflin.) $1.50. 

Portland, Me. 

1. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

2. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

3. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

4. The Call of the Wild. London. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

5. The Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

6. The Main Chance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

Portland, Ore. 

1. The Main Chance. Nicholson. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

2. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

3. Under the Rose. Isham. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

4. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Har- 

per.) $1.50. 

5. Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch. 

Hegan-Rice. (Century.) $1.00. 

6. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

Rochester, N. Y. 

1. The Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

2. Lovey Mary. Hegan-Rice. (Century.) 


3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

5. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

6. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Har- 

per.) $1.50. 

Salt Lake City. 

1. Lions of the Lord. Wilson. (Lothrop.) 


2. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

3. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

4. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

5. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

6. Ward of King Canute. Liljencranz. 

(McClurg.) $1.50. 

San Francisco, CaL 

1. The Call of the Wild. London. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

3. As It Was In the Beginning. Miller. 

(Robertson.) $1.00. 

4. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

5. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Har- 

per.) $1.50. 

6. For the Pleasure of His Company. Stod- 

dard. (Robertson.) $1.50 net. 



St Louis, Mo. 

1. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

2. The Call of the Wild. London. (Mac- 

niillan.) $1.50. 

3. Peggy O'Neal. Lewis. (Drexel-Biddle.) 


4. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

5. The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

6. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

St. Paul, Minn. 

1. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. Barrel of the Blessed Isles. Bacheller. 

(Lothrop.) $1.50. 

4. The Lions of the Lord. Wilson. (Loth- 

rop.) $1.50. 

5. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (Bobbs- 

Merrill.) $1.50. 

6. Brewster's Millions. Greaves. (Stone.) 


Toledo, Ohio. 

1. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch. 

Hegan-Rice. (Century.) $1.00. 

5. Lovey Mary. Hegan-Rice. (Century.) 


6. Lady Rose's Daughter. Ward. (Har- 

per.) $1.50. 

Toronto, Can. 

1. Gordon Keith. Page. (Capp-Clark.) 

75c. and $1.25. 

2. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. (McLeod- 

Allen.) 75c. and $1.25. 

3. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. 

(Morang.) $1.50. 

4. The Filigree Ball. Green. (McLeod- 

Allen.) 75c. and $1.25. 

5. The Virginian. Wister. (Morang.) 75c. 

and $1.50. 
6 Brewster's Millions. Greaves. (McLeod- 
Allen.) 75c. and $1.25. 

Washington, D. C. 

1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

3. The One Woman, Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

4. The Filigree Ball. Green. (Bobbs-Mer- 

rill.) $1.50. 

5. Peggy O'Neal. Lewis. (Stokes.) $1.50 

6. Round Anvil Rock. Banks. (Mae- 

millan.) $1.50. 

Washington, D. C. 

1. The Call of the Wild. London. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

3. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

4. The Four Feathers. Mason. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

5. The One Woman. Dixon. (Doubleday- 

Page.) $1.50. 

6. When Patty Went to College. Webster. 

(Century.) $1.50. 

Worcester, Mass. 

1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

2. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) $1.50. 

3. The Call of the Wild. London. (Mac- 

millan.) $1.50. 

4. The Filigree Ball. Greene. (Bobbs-Mcr- 

rill.) $1.50. 

5. The Lightning Conductor. Williamson. 

(Holt.) $1.50. 

6. Monsigny. Forman. (Doubleday-Page.) 


From the above lists the six best selling 
books are selected according to the follow- 
ing system: 


A book standing ist on any list receives 10 

















According to the foregoing lists, the six 
books which have sold best in the order of 
demand during the month are: 


1. The Mettle of the Pasture. Allen. 

(Macmillan,) $1.50 22I 

2. Gordon Keith. Page. (Scribner.) 

$1.50 ., ao7 

3. The One Woman. Dixon. (Double- 

day, Page & Co.) $1.50 164 

4. The Call of the Wild. London. 

(Macmillan.) $1.50 77 

5. The Grey Cloak. MacGrath. 

(Bobbs-Merrill Co.) $1.50 69 

6. The "Lightning Conductor. William- 

son. (Holt.) $1.50 66 


No- 3, 


Hand SAPOLIO cleans the pores, aids the 
natural changes of the skin, and imparts 
new vigor and life* Don^t argue, Don^t 
infer, Try it ! It's a lightning change from 
office to parlor with HAND SAPOLIO. 

its activity, and aid its natural changes, not 
by expensive Turkish baths, but by HAND 
SAPOLIO, the only soap that liberates the 
activities of the pores without working 
chemical changes* Costs but a trifle* 


SAPOLIO makes it a very desirable toilet 
article; it contains no animal fats, but is 
made from the most healthful of the 
vegetable oils* It is truly the *^ Dainty 
Woman's Friend.*' Its use is a fine habit. 

Movember, 1903 


c>4 Magazine of Literature and Life 

Manuscripts submitted ts The Bookman sbtuld be addressed to "The Editors d/'The Bookman." 
Manastripti lent to either of the Editors perseaally are liable le be mislaid or lost. tjf t# 


f 'iir esteemed contemporary, the Critic, 
in the ■'Lounger" of the October number 
makes the slartlinfr announcement of its 
discovery of the fact tliat "Frank Dan- 
hy," the author of Pigs in Cloz'er, is a 


Colonel ^Vatterson on CompromiscB. 
Although the publication of The Com- 
promises of Life, by Henry Watterson, 
just now is probably a result of the wide 
newspaper discussion stirred up some 
months ago by his strictures on what he 
referred to as' "the Four Hundred." the 
personality of the veteran editor of the 
Louisville Courier-Journal is such as to 
make a book from him spicy reading at 
any time. Whether you agree with him 
or not, and on many points some of us 
will disagree with him very flatly, you 
will find him almost always entertaining. 
The present volume, of which we shall 
have more to say later, is divided into four 
parts and an Appendix. The Appendix 
is probably what the average reader will 
turn to first, for it deals with "Certain 
Downward Tendencies in the Smart Set 
of Fashionable Society." In it are in- 
cluded the various papers which when 
published last year caused so much con- 
trovers v. 


Miss Mary Moss. 
One day, alxiut a year or two ago, 
among the daily batch of manuscripts of 
all kinds which the mail brings to The 
Bookman office, there was one whose only 
claim to exception at first sight was due 
to the fact that it seemed to be particu- 
larly unprepossessing. That is, before 

we had read the article. In the first place, 
it was, if we are not mistaken, in hand- 
writing. The name of the writer was en- 
tirely new to us, and the subject of the 
jKiper was not one which had any particu- 
lar appeal. Nevertheless — and to this 
point we wish to call the attention of the 
very many people who maintain stoutly 
that magazines pay j\o attention to manu- 
scripts which have not what they term "a 
pull" — this particular paper, despite its 
seeming unattractiveness, was speedily 
set aside from the rest, and soon came up 
for iinal decision, VVe accepted it. We 



Uisa U&BY MOSS. 

did so, not because we wanted it especial- 
ly, but because it was so good that it lit- 
erally forced itself upon us — we could 
not refuse it. We are very glad now that 
we did take it, because we have since been 
publishing a number of other articles 
from the same pen, and because Miss 
Mary Moss who wrote it, tells us that it 
was practically the first article of hers 
that was accepted anywhere. Since then, 
however, Miss Moss has had compara- 
tively little trouble of that kind. Articles 
and stories from her have appeared in a 
number of the magazines and her first 
novel, A Sequence in Hearts, is being re- 
viewed elsewhere in this number of The 

"Facts about me are terribly meagre," 
writes Miss Moss. "If I had to live over 
again and knew this 'fame' was to be 
thrust upon mc I'd mis-spend every Sat- 
urday afternoon, so as to have a dark past 
to draw on. As it is, I've always livetl 
here and never experienced anything in 
the least noteworthy. I've always had a 
great curiosity about people in general, 
and verv little about people in particular, 
the neighbours for instance. Always, 

without knowing why, I simply had to 
explore different kinds of people, had to 
understand how they felt about things, 
how they lived. It was imperative, 
though I did not realise why, or feel con- 
scious of any definite aim. I was always 
eager to write, but my attempts were un- 
successful. I did not know enough. All 
my ventures came home, at first with 
printed slips 'We regret, etc' — that im- 
personal kind which the office boy tucks 
in when he uses your return postage. 
Then came a bit of criticism or a personal 
letter. Then one editor said a story con- 
tained good material, I had 'better set to 
work and write it' (1 considered this a 
finished masterpiece). Reading the manu- 
script two years later, I found he was 
quite right. At about the fourth rehash 
it suddenly came into shape as 'Julian 
Meldohia' (this appeared last year in Lip- 
pincotl's Maga::inc). Meantime I wrote 
special newspaper articles and learned 
the A B C of paragraphing, and not 
using all p's in one line and all s's in 
another and a few mechanical details 
which did not come by instinct. Spelling 
remains as before, a mystery. The first 
story left me in despair. I thought no 
other plots would ever present them- 
selves. Now I'm afraid of not having 
time to write all that is in my head, a long 
novel, and five short stories dealing with 
familiar social conditions, besides several 
essays. Really this is all. You might 
add 'Temper bad, mornings. Very fond 
of talking. Poor listener. Does not 
smoke (yet). Not so young as she once 
was, but still pretty active. Likes young 
girls and boys.' I could answer any num- 
ber of questions, but this spinning out of 
nothing is the very mischief. The neigh- 
bours have always considered me very 
ordinary, so that they cherish no legends 
of interesting traits." 
The Authors of "The Lightning Conductor." 

A book which has been discussed in 
print comparatively little, but which from 
month to month has been going on rolling 
up a real success is The Lii^htning Con- 
ductor, hv -Alice Muriel Williamson and 
Charles Norris Williamson. It is one of 
those books which go simply because of 
the endless chain of people who like_ it 
honestlv and recommend it to all with 
whom they may come in contact. Each 



^■'" ■ 

■,. >-.<■ iHn^^^H 


I^^K^ !V1 




^^^1' r>^ ^^liilfl 





|H t^ 



Um. ELU W. PEATTIE. Ths aathor or "Tba Edgaol 


liii llie Tiin.'iiiuli Trnll. The rbllunlHi' Trail. 

ThK rnrk Tnilu. The Ton of Ut. WhItT 

UhuutLiiK a HnttliT la tlir Alaiit Forait. 



of the authors, previous to the collabora- 
tion upon this story, possessed a reputa- 
tion of no mean importance. Alice 
Muriel Williamson was an American girl. 
having been born near Poughkeepsie. At 
the age of eighteen she went on the stage. 
acting with the Frohman companies, and 
•afterwards starring for a time with her 
own company. Then she turned to jour- 
nalism, and in i8()2 went to England as 
correspondent of several American 
papers. Her marriage to Mr. William- 
son took place in 1804. Her former pub- 
lications are : The Barnstormers, a novel 
embodying some of her stage experi- 
ences; Fortune's Sport; A Woman in 
Grey; Lady Mary of the Dark House; 
The Newspaper Girl; The House by the 
Lot; Ordered South; The Adventures 
of Princess Syhna; My Lady Cinderella; 
Queen Sweetheart; and The Silent Bat- 
tle. None of these earlier books, how- 
ever, had the success of The Lightning 

Charles Norris Williamson has some 
reputation in England as a journalist and 
author of importance. He was born at 
Exeter in 1859. and was educated at llnl- 
versitv College. Ijandon. After working 
for a little while at engineering he turned 

his hand to journalism at the age of 
twenty-two, joining the staff of the Ex- 
amtner. For eight years he was on the 
editorial staff of the London Graphic, and 
ill 1891 started Black and White, and in 
1896 The Minute. He has written a 
number of books, his most important 
work so far being his Life of Thomas 
Carlyle, which was published in two vol- 

Mrs. Elia W. Peattie. 
Mrs. Elia W. Peattie, whose novel The 
Edge of Things, is reviewed elsewhere in 
this number of The Bookman, has for 
some years been the leading book review- 
er of the Chicago Tribune. She was born 
in Michigan and has lived most of her 
life in Chicago, where she has had a thor- 
ough newspaper training, having served 
in almost every position from a reporter 
to an editorial writer. Among her for- 
mer publications are a novel, The Be- 
leagurcd Forest, some books of short 
stories, a volume of ghost tales and some 
children's stories. Three years ago last 
summer, her country home in Michigan 
was destroyed by fire, and with it every 
record of all the writings that she had 
ever done. Two unfinished novels, 
twenty odd short stories, ten lectures, a 
great quantity of unprepared material, 
unfinished sketches, and literary notes, 
went up in smoke. 

Mr. White's Latest Trail. 

Probably no American writer passed a 
more adventurous summer than Mr. 
Stewart Edward White, who from the 
early spring until September was break- 
ing throtigh practically unexplored re- 
gions of California, gathering material 
for The Mountains, which is to be pub- 
lished next voar and will be a companion 
volume to The Forest, which is reviewed 
elsewhere in this issue. In midsummer 
a stor>' went the rotmds of the Western 
newspapers and found its way East, to 
the effect that Mr. White's party had 
been overcome by exhaustion and the 
lack of water, that all escaped death bv a 
very narrow margin and that Mr. White 
himself was picked up unconscious lying 
bv the dead bodv of his favourite dog. 
The story was onlv in part an exaggera- 
tion. A pleasant feature of the trip was 



Mb. lewis rind. 

the entertainment of the party by Gen- 
eral Shatter, who owns a large place not 
far from the -trail which they followed. 
After the hard work of the trip was done 
Mr. White stayed for a time in Van- 
couver. An enthusiastic dowager with 
literary tastes insisted on taking him 
about introducing liim as "the author of 
"The Blasted Trail.' " 

The London Academy's Former Editor. 
Mr. Lewis Hind, who has held the 
editorship of the London Academy for 
seven years, has resigned, and has been 
SHcceeded by Mr. Teignmoiilh Shore, son 
of a well-known Anglican preacher. Len- 
der Mr. Hind's care the Academy has 
more than r|iiadriiple(l its circulation, and 
he leaves of his own accord, and in the 
continnance of the cordial relations which 
have always existed between him and 
Mr. Morgan Richards, the proprietor. 
Mr. Hind has worked hard and success- 
fully at the Academx, and he wishes first 
a rest and then a change of labour. He 
will probably go to Cornwall for some 
months, and write a hnok which he has 
long planned. After that he will return 
to London and edit a new paper tor 
which the capital has been already pro- 
vided. Mr. Hind has shown himself a 

skillful, competent, and scrupulously just 
editor, and has also displayed fine quali- 
ties of imagination in his "Things Seen," 
and other contributions to bis paper. He 
is as much interested in art as in litera- 

During Mr. Hind's editorship the 
Academy has been revolutionised. It 
was started at first as an organ of the 
learned, and carried on by Mr. Murray 
for a year. First published monthly and 
then fortnightly, it became a weekly 
abont 1874, under the charge of Dr. 
Appleton. The long reviews were signed, 
and a very high standard was maintained, 
some of the most eminent writers and 
scholars of the time contributing regu- 
larly. Under Mr. Cotton the paper was 
somewhat popularised, but the principle 
of signed reviews was retained. Mr. 
Hind introduced many new features, in 
particular the thoughtful essays, and, 
generally speaking, has appealed to a 
wider public, while not failing to main- 
tain a certain Hterary quality and dis- 
tinction. He has been well served by 
able coadjirtors, including Mr. Wilfrid 





Whitten and Mr. C. K. Burroughs. 
Much space has been given to bibUog- 
raphy and Hterary gossip. There is every 
prospect that under Mr. Teignmouth 
Shore the Academy will maintain its cir- 
culation and influence. Mr. Teignmouth 
Shore has been connected with the Times 
Supplement to the Encyclopedia Britan- 

The Author's Side of the Case. 

During the past two or three years 
there has been a great deal printed on the 
subject of book reviews and book review- 
ers, and not all of it has impressed us. 
The publishers have had their say. At 
great length they have expressed them- 
selves as to what they thought a favour- 
able review did in "booming" the sale of 
a certain book, and how much a book was 
really harmed by a review couched in 
paragraphs of slashing disapproval. The 
book reviewers themselves have also been 
approached, and opportunities have been 
given of telling just how they went to 
work in constructing a review, what were 
the lines along which they thought the 
ideal review should be written and just 
what a review was or was not anyhow. 
On its commercial side the idea was 
pretty well thrashed out. Most of us 
have grown lately to think of a contem- 
porary book in its relation to "the six 
best." The only person who seems to 
have been overlooked in this wholesale 
expression of opinion — ^possibly because 
he was so obvious — was the man who 
wrote the book that was reviewed. Pos- 
sibly a certain review did not do much to 
augment or to injure the sale of a book, 
but it is very sure that it interested the 
author. Keats is said to have died of an 
unfavourable review; and while we do 
not believe in the story in its entirety, we 
do not recall that there is any such tradi- 
tion about a publisher. 

In order to get an idea as to what the 
authors themselves thought of the mat- 
ter, we recently sent out to various Amer- 
ican men and women of letters of distinc- 
tion, a series of questions with a request 
that they should be kind enough to an- 
swer them. With a very few exceptions 
all of them acceded at greater or less 
length, and these replies we are printing, 
some of them in the present number and 

some in later issues of The Bookman. 
While asking their opinions generally, 
we also asked specifically of each author : 
I. "Do reviewers understand the under- 
lying meaning of your books ?" II. "Do 
the majority of them write as though 
they had read the book?" III. "Are 
their criticisms well founded?" IV. 
"How do newspaper reviews compare 
with the reviews- in literary magazines ?" 
V. "Do you not often find that, in order 
to cover up their lack of knowledge about 
the story, reviewers pick out certain pas- 
sages in which they have found some un- 
important blemishes ?" As to the letters, 
they speak for themselves. Not only do 
they give the honest opinions of the au- 
thors, but to those who like to try to 
read between the lines they offer excel- 
lent opportunities as character studies. 

The reply of the author of A Kentucky 
Cardinal and The Choir Invisible seems; 
to us exceedingly lucid, kindly, and utter- 
ly free from animus : 

Some critics .seem to understand my books, 
some do not; but the general result of all 
criticism has been a very fair and just appre- 
ciation of any book that I have ever written. 
Sometimes a review will contain errors of 
statement — not of opinion — unaccountable ex- 
cept upon the supposition that the writer of 
it had not read all of the book in question, and 
that the part he had read had been read in- 
accurately. At other times, a review bears evi- 
dences of a reading more thoughtful and 
thorough than could have been believed pos- 
sible. Some of the best — much the best — 
criticism is to be found in the newspapers of 
the country. There are many reasons why this 
should be true. On the whole, I believe that 
the reviews in the best newspapers of the 
country are better than those in the magazines. 
I have occasionally found instances in which 
a critic would pick out what he regarded a 
flaw in a book — even the solitary item of a 
date — and throw all the rest away. As I do 
not like to charge motives, I accept the fact 
and do not philosophise. If he is pleased, so 

am I. James Lane Allen, 


From the author of The Virginian: 

Your pages, from which fear and favour are 

oftener banished than in many places, provide 

a strong temptation to speak at length; but a 

temptation to be resisted. 

Let us remember that in our country, at this 



present hour, more people are talking at once, 
and louder, and faster, than anywhere else in 
the entire world. It needs must follow that 
now and then a word of value is uttered; and 
he that hath hears will hear it 

But I am very sorry indeed for any good 
American critic — the sort who has for his 
ideals Sainte Beuve, Sarcey, Lemaitre, Ana- 
tole France. Such a critic is a lonely man 
upon our soil, unlistened to, uncared for, wast- 
ing his sweetness on an air more desert than 
anywhere reading and writing arc practised. 
Yes; he is a lonely man, with a small audi- 
ence, and scanty wages; and every author to 
whose heart American letters are dear, should 
bless him for existing and beg him to go on. 
From such a one blame is more stimulating 
than all the loose lavish praise by which vanity 
is nourished and art is starved. To every 
author I would say, if you .are lucky enough 
to meet such a critic, grapple him to your 
soul with hoops of steel. 

The novel has with us a far readier public; 
even good ones are not infrequently read. 

I have become inadvertently serious. Let 
me hasten to administer a little antidote which 
I have found highly efficacious during all sorts 
of bad quarters-of-an-hour. It was given to 
me in Boston: 

The dog is in the bedstead. 
The cat is in the lake. 
The cow is in the hammock — 
What difference does it make? 

Owen Wistcr. 


From Mrs. Atherton: 

It is hard to generalise about reviewers, but 
as few of them are employed as critics, pure 
and simple, and have much other work to do 
I should think it was fairly safe to say — taking 
this knowledge in connection with certain in- 
ternal evidence, that no long book, at least, 
is read consecutively. As to the justice of 
their criticisms, that being a question upon 
which no mortal jury would agree — the au- 
thor is the last person to consult! His prin- 
cipal interest in book reviews is their contribu- 
tion to his stock of human nature. No one 
reveals himself so ingenuously as he who 
writes about the creators. If he is honest, con- 
scientious, spiteful, malicious, disappointed^ 
young and full of hope, blase and loathing the 
sight of a book, dyspeptic, successful and op- 
timistic, a failure and intensely annoyed at 
success or power in woman, he reveals himself 
as simply and fully as if he was keeping a 
psychological diary (more so, I should think) I 

For this reason I am unable to see any differ- 
erence between the reviews in magazines and 
newspapers ; and, I will add, that my own ex- 
perience, from first to last, proves that all re- 
views might just as well remain unwritten. 

Gertrude Atherton, 

From F. Marion Crawford: 
In answer to your note of August 5th, I 
should find it very hard to give an account of 
my relations with the critics. I only read 
such" criticisms of my books as I am given to 
understand deserve attention. These are gen- 
erally handed to me by one or two or three 
persons whose opinion I esteem. My experi- 
ence is therefore limited, but I may honestly 
say that the criticisms which I read and which 
certainly belong to the highest class of such 
work, are generally conscientious and often 
acute. So far as I am aware, I have more to 
be grateful for than to resent in what has been 
written about my work. 

F, Marion Crawford, 

From Jack London : 

Not one reviewer in fifty ever mentions an 
underlying meaning in my books, much less 
shows that he understands the underlying 
meaning. But this may be my fault, not theirs. 

Yes, the majority of them write as though 
they had read the book, though I have in my 
memory a reviewer who wrote a most en- 
thusiastic review of a collection of Klondike 
tales, throughout which review he considered 
it as a collection of sea stories. 

Their adverse criticisms are too often well 
founded for my comfort. 

I find newspaper reviews more extravagant, 
in praise or censure, than magazine reviews. 
They say nicer things (newspapers), and they 
. say nastier things. 

It seems to me a very common practice of 
reviewers to select slips in grammar, anachron- 
isms, vulgarisms, etc., and to devote their re- 
views to them rather than to the story itself. 

The most hateful trick of the reviewer, and 
a common one, is to tell the story over again, 
and most inadequately, and in telling it over 
again to use the author's language as though 
it were his (the reviewer's) language. 

I must say, however, that I have seen some 
newspaper reviews which, for seriousness, 
dignity, and comprehension, compared favour- 
ably with literary magazine reviews. 

Jack London, 



From Charles Major : 

In reply to your first question I would say: 
I feel sure a large majority of reviewers un- 
derstand the underlying meaning of my books, 
if there is any. Reviewers, like other persons, 
vary in the matter of intelligence, and, of 
course, we are apt to consider those who 
abuse us very dull. 

To your second: I believe a large majority 
of those who review my books write as though 
they had read them. 

To your third : Criticisms by intelligent re- 
viewers, as a rule, are well founded, I am 
sorry to confess. 

Sometimes faults that do not exist are dis- 
covered by reviewers. A lady reviewing a 
book for a Philadelphia paper, said among 
other things that the name "Dorothy" used 
in a sixteenth century story was an anachron- 
ism; that "Dorothy" was resurrected from the 
Greek, and that the Greek was resurrected dur- 
ing the Renaissance, therefore, the name 
"Dorothy" could not have been used at the 
period of the story. Such was the contention 
of the reviewer, which, unfortunately for her, 
conflicted with the facts in the case. There 
was a Dorothy who died in 1587, and her name 
is graven on her tomb of that date at Bakewell 
Church. The same reviewer found the words 
"knuckle down," very funny in a sixteenth 
century story, and declared them an anchron- 
ism. "Knuckle down," was an Athenian game 
and the term has been used, both to designate 
the game, and in the figurative sense in which 
we use it, for centuries. 

Another reviewer criticised the use of the 
word "trump" (the triumphant card) in a 
sixteenth century story. Especially was the 
word anachronistic, the reviewer said, when 
used in a situation not directly connected with 
the game of cards; that is, it was wrong in 
the figurative sense in which we frequently em- 
ploy it. Hall, in a 1548 edition of his chron- 
icles, says: "Richmond cast a trump into 
Richard*s camp." I give these examples in 
answer to your request for an illustration of 
reviews that do not please me. Also as illus- 
trations of an effort to appear wise and find 
fault. The book had many real faults which 
the reviewer failed to note. 

Errors by reviewers frequently grow out of 
two causes: 

First : Overhaste in the matter of copy ; or 
lack of investigation. An author who is at 
all careful is apt to be right 

Second : A misunderstanding on the part of 
some reviewers of the nature of the art of 

criticism. They frequently take it to be a 
humorous branch of literature, and at times 
cannot resist the human longing to be witty, 
at the expense of truth and the poor author. 
George Eliot says "A difference of taste in 
jokes is a strain upon the affections." Criti- 
cism should be a serious matter, since a re- 
viewer's praise leads persons to buy a book 
and his censure prevents them. His praise 
should be discriminate, and he should show 
cause for it. His censure should be as intelli- 
gent as he can make it, and he should give a 
reason for it. In my opinion, a large majority 
of reviewers strive for that end, and to such 
criticism no author has any right to object. 

Reviewers, I believe, as a rule, are honest, 
and honesty after all, "leaveneth the whole 
lump." Charles Major. 


From Stewart Edward White : 

Reviewers are the only ones who understand 
the underlying meanings of my books. I 
don't understand them myself until I am told 
about them in the public prints. Usually I try 
to tell a straightforward story of things as I 
see them, after which it is gratifying, curious, 
and interesting to see what the ingenious get 
out of it. It makes me feel profound and 
philosophic without having had to work out 
the development of those qualities. 

Far be it from me to suggest that anybody, 
even a reviewer, could refrain from reading a 
book of mine once he has picked it up. That 
wouldn't be good business. Equally, far be it 
from me to blame him if he did. That wouldn't 
be modest. So to the second question I shall 
have to plead that I do not know. Whether 
certain strange blunders indicate ignorance of 
the book or limitations in the mental equip- 
ment of the reviewer it would be impossible 
to say without personal acquaintance with that 

Frankly I get a great deal of good from 
what real criticism I see. Much of it, with 
which I do not agree, I ascribe to hasty read- 
ing, the skipping of passages intended to es- 
tablish a proper frame of mind in the reader, 
or inability to take my point of view. That 
does not count. But in every serious review 
are certain "pointers" which are valuable in 
future work. For that reason a man who docs 
serious work rejoices in a review containing 
specific adverse criticism, provided, of course, 
the strictures are not of "petty and unimpor- 
tant blemishes." 

The ordinary newspaper review is likely to 
be quite valueless. This remark does not ap- 



ply to a score or so of the big papers, whose 
book columns are practically of magazine im- 
portance. But the average newspaper review 
either praises indiscriminately, details the plot 
of your story, or lands joyfully with both feet 
on some one or two poor little mistakes that 
don't amount to a violet at a pole-cat caucus. 

Now indiscriminate praise means nothing to 
me except that the reviewer is probably get- 
ting his five dollars per. Likewise, when I 
have taken sixty thousand words to tell a 
story it does not always impress me as a help 
to see another man attempt to detail it in five 
hundred. As to the minute connection of 
rhetorical blunders, that of course belongs 
with the grammar school. 

The higher class newspapers and the maga- 
zines, however, seem habitually to attempt to 
give a real opinion. Naturally I don*t always 
agree with it. But it is generally instructive, 
sometimes illtmiinating, and always amusing. 

Stewart Edward White. 

Literary Pseudonyms. 

Henry Harland in his novel Grandison 
Mather, which is pretty generally under- 
stood to be largely autobiographical, tells 
how his hero, Thomas Gardiner, having 
written his first novel decided to have it 
published under a pseudonym. * His rea- 
soning was that if this first book proved a 
failure it might have a disastrous effect 
on the popularity of anything that he 
should afterwards write; whereas in the 
event of success it would be easy enough 
to emerge under his own name and to 
take to himself all the glory. From the 
practical writing point of view there 
was considerable good sense in his argu- 
ment, and, although most of the writers 
of the present day are now scribbling over 
or under their own legitimate names, 
nearly all confess to having at some time 
made use of pseudonyms. To be sure, 
a few writing persons have managed to 
keep the dark secret of earlier and less 
successful— or possibly only too-success- 
ful—days; but in most cases, a curious 
public has finally succeeded in bringing 
to light what was once so carefully con- 
cealed from all the world. 

Many women since "George Eliot's" 
time have abandoned ordinary, plain, un- 
romantic and strictly feminine appella- 
tions as unprepossessing as that of Mary 

Ann Evans, to assume masculine pen- 
names; but "George Sand," could not 
complain of her own name on the score 
of plainness for she was called Baroness 
Dudevant. For more modem instances, 
we have "John Oliver Hobbs," who is 
Mrs. Reginald Walpole Craigie ; "George 
Madden Martin," who is Mrs. Atwood 
R. Martin; "Robert Daley Williams," 
who is Margaret Horton Potter ; "Pierre 
de Coulevain," who is Mademoiselle 
Favre, and the author of Eve Trium- 
phant; "Lucas Malet," who is Mrs. Har- 
rison, and "Maxwell Gray," whose story, 
The Silence of Dean Maitland, gave no 
hint that its author was a mere slip of a 
girl. Another mannish nom-de-guerre, 
"Henry Greville," is certainly a more 
comfortable mouthful than Alice Marie 
Celeste Fleury Durand; and "Charles 
Egbert Craddock" means more to most 
persons that does Miss Murfree. Mrs. 
Henrietta Eliza Stannard courted fame 
under two pen-names, one masculine, the 
other feminine ; she is much better known 
in America, however, as "John Strange 
Winter," than she is as Violet White. 
Of all the masculine names used for the 
purpose of concealing feminine identity 
"George" appears to havebeen most popu- 
lar. Indeed, wherever George is given 
as the name of an unknown writer, it is 
well not to take too much for granted — 
"Dear Madam" may be more appropriate 
than "Dear Sir." Time has proved, how- 
ever, that George W. Cable, George H. 
Lorimer, George Ade, George Potter, and 
George Barr McCutcheon came honestly 
by their respective Georges. 

Few men have deliberately chosen to 
pose as women writers, yet Grant Allen 
certainly reversed the order of things 
when he published The Typezvriter Girl, 
over the feminine pseudonym "Olive Pratt 
Raynor." "Shirley," too, John Skelton's 
pen-name, has a girlish sound ; and it has 
long been suspected, if not actually 
proved, that "Mrs. Hannah Glasse." of 
cookery-book fame, was really Dr. John 
Hill a literary hack of 1747- Many writ- 
ers have been more or less non-committal 
in their choice of names. The letter "Q 
used by both Douglas Jerrold and A. T. 
Quiller Couch was a sigpiature — if one 
may call a solitary initial a,signature — cal- 
culated to keep one's public guessing. 



in \ 



Dickens's well-known "Boz," Thacke- 
ray's "Michael Angelo Titmarsh" and 
"Ikey Solomons," Helen Hunt Jackson's 
"H. H.," Charlotte Maria Tucker's quaint 
"A L. O. E." (A Lady Of England), and 
Stimson's "J. S. of Dale" were equally 
puzzling. Neither could the uninitiated 
reader be quite sure of Mary Abigail 
Dodge's "Gail Hamilton," Miss French's 
"Octave Thanet," W. S. Gilbert's odd 
"Tomlne Latour," Lady Wilde's "Sper- 
anza," Daudet's "Jehan de I'Isle," or 
"The Bostonian," who later proved to be 
no less a personage than Edgar Allan 
Poe. A still larger number of writers, 
the majority indeed, have used — or are 
now using — assumed names without at- 
tempting any disguise of gender. For 
many years Brander Matthews signed his 
work "Arthur Penn," and, as an amusing 
consequence, was once accused of plagia- 
rising his own work. "Paul Grey ton" was 
Trowbridge's youthful pseudonym, the 
late "Alfred Ayres" was, in real life, Dr. 
Thomas Embley Osmun, which knowl- 
edge came as something of a shock to 
those that had not suspected the man-of- 
words of coining a name for himself. 
"Henry Seton Merriman," is a cogno- 
men that sounds remarkably genuine, is 
merely the nom de plume of Hugh Scott. 

As everybody knows, "Mark Twain" is 
Samuel L. Clemens, and "Anthony 
Hope" is Mr. Anthony Hope Hawkins, 
"Oliver Optic" was William T. Adams, 
and "Geoffrey Crayon" was one of the 
names used by Washington Irving. It is 
not so well known, perhaps, that "Frank 
Leslie," was first the assumed name of 
Henry Carter, who founded the Frank 
Leslie publications in 1855, and was af- 
terwards the name adopted for business 
reasons by his widow. Nor is it generally 
known that Booth Tarkington's first writ- 
ings were published under the names 
"John Corburton" and "S. Cecil Wood- 
ford," that Henry M. Stanley's real name 
was "John Rowlands"; that'"F. Anstey" 
is F. A. Guthrie, or that Hugh Conway, 
the "Looking Backward" man. was F. J. 
Fargus. "Christopher North" certainly 
sounds more familiar to most ears than 
does Professor John Wilson, "Barry 
Cornwall," too, is far more attractive 
than Bryan Waller Proctor. On the other 

hand, few persons, nowadays, think of 
Lowell as "Hosea Bigelow," or of Ed- 
ward Everett Hale as "Colonel Frederic 
Ingraham." "Max Adeler," "Pierre 
Loti,"^ "Ian MacLaren," and "Josiah 
Flynt" are pseudonyms belonging to 
Charles Heber Clark, Julien Viaud, the 
Rev. John Watson, and Josiah Flynt Wil- 
lard. "Henry Scott Clark," author of 
The Legionaries, is Millard F. Cox, and 
"Gabriel Setoun" is Gabriel Hepburn. 

Fewer women have taken feminine 
names that appear to be genuine but are 
in reality manufactured for literary use. 
One such person, however, was Isabel A. 
Mallon, of the Ladies' Home Journal fame, 
whose "Ruth Ashmore" certainly pos- 
sessed the virtue of plausibility. Her 
other pen-name, "Bab" was less convinc- 
ing. "Susan Coolidge," too, sounds de- 
cidedly real, but it is the pseudonym of 
Sarah Chauncey Woolsey. "Marion Har- 
land" is Mrs. M. V.Terhune, whose maid- 
en name was Hawes. "Ellen Burroughs," 
another convincing sobriquet, is Miss So- 
phie Jewett; "Dinah Sturgis" is Mrs. 
Belle Whitney Armstrong, "Madeline S. 
Bridges" is Mary Ainge de Vere, who, 
however, has written under both names, 
and "Mrs. Alexander" is the pseudonym 
of Mrs. Annie French Hector, the author 
of "The Wooing O't." The late "Edna 
Lyall" was Ada Ellen Bailey. Men as 
well as women have taken or invented for 
themselves more or less fanciful names, 
some of the American humourists being 
particularly happy in the matter of select- 
ing, showing, in some instances, positive 
genius. Surely "Petroleum Vesuvius 
Nasby" was a better tag for humourous 
purposes than D. R. Locke; and "Uncle 
Esek" and "Josh Billings" had greater 
powers of amusing than one could rea- 
sonably expect from a Henry Wheeler 
Shaw. "Orpheus C. Kerr" was R. H. 
Newell. "Atlas" (The World) the name 
selected by Edmund Yates, suggests 
great possibilities. Charles Farrer Browne 
became better known by his pseudonym 
"Artemus Ward," than was the American 
general to whom the name once right- 
fully belonged. As "Bill Nye," the hu- 
mourist was far funnier than he could 
ever have been as Edgar W. Nye. It is 
a far cry, perhaps, to gentle "Ik Marvel," 



who was Donald G. Mitchell, but his 
name, too, was happily chosen. Perhaps 
it is fitting that the fanciful names se- 
lected by women should show less 
strength and not a scrap of humour. 
"Amber," the pseudonym of Mrs. M. E. 
Holden, and "Pansy," the name by which 
Mrs. Isabella M. Alden became so well 
known, seem, in the light of these strenu- 
ous times, exceedingly weak ; yet, in both 
cases, the woman behind the name made 
it tell. "Guida," as a childish mispro- 
nunciation of Louise (Louise de la Ra- 
mee) is no stronger, perhaps, but it is 
certainly more distinctive because of its 
uniqueness, for it is the only "Guida" 
there is. Charlotte Bronte's "Currer Bell" 
is better known than her sister's equally 
odd pen-name, "Acton Bell." Writers 
of both sexes have shown a fondness for 
alliteration. For example, we have the 
"Fanny Fern" of Mrs. Sara Parton's 
choice, Mrs. Jane Croly's "Jennie June," 
Mrs. Sara Jane Clarke Lippincott's 
"Grace Greenwood," and "Kitty K.," the 
name under which Kate Masterson, 
whose own name is so suggestive of 
strength, first wrote. Here again, the 
pseudonyms chosen by men show more 
backbone. Holland's "Timothy Titcomb," 
Haliburton's "Sam Slick," John Wolcot's 
"Peter Pinder," and Sidney Smith's 
"Peter Plimley" are excellent examples. 
For popularity, however, "Peter Parley" 
appears to have carried off the laurels for 
the name was used by no fewer than five 
persons, Goodrich, Martin, Mogridge, 
Tegg, and Bennett. 

Marriage has, in many cases, rendered 
well known names strangely unfamiliar. 
Miss Mulock became Mrs. Craik, Miss 
M. E. Braddon became Mrs. John Max- 
well, and Mrs. Francis Hodgson Burnett 
became Mrs. Townsend, although each 
writer continued to use her former name 
for literary purposes. Matrimony added 
to Anna Katharine Green's already suf- 
ficiently long name another syllable, 
Rohlfs; and is also responsible for the 
addition of Ward to the equally long 
name Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. More re- 
cently. Miss Mary E. Wilkins became 
Mrs. Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, Ellen 
Thomeycroft Fowler became Mrs. A. L. 
Felkin, Alice Caldwell Hegen became 
Alice Hegen Rice, and Josephine Dodge 

Daskam rather spoiled an unusually eu- 
phonious name by becoming Mrs. Seldon 
Bacon. Mrs. Freeman's latest stories, 
however, are appearing imder her maiden 
name, and it is to be hoped that Mrs. 
Bacon will not altogether abandon a 
name so ready to the tongue and so easily 
remembered as Josephine Dodge Daskam. 
Matrimony, fortunately, does not play 
havoc with masculine names, but occa- 
sionally Royalty does, giving us, for in- 
stance, a Sir Arthur Doyle or a Sir Gil- 
bert Parker. In numerous instances, 
writers have chosen names calculated to 
disguise their nationality. Charles G. 
Leland became "Hans Breitmann," the 
late Paul Blouet's "Max G'Rell" sounded 
more Irish than French, Irving's "Died- 
rich Knickerbocker" was nothing if not 
Dutch, the real name of "Sidney Lee," 
the English writer, is Solomon Levy, 
and Lafcadio Hearn has taken the Japan- 
ese name "Y Koisumi," which may be 
more of an improvement than it looks. 
Sometimes rather ordinary names have 
served to cloak Royalty. Perhaps the 
best known is that of Elizabeth, Queen of 
Roumania, whose pleasant sounding 
"Carmen Silva" is not so ordinary, after 
all. Then, too, there was the rather plain 
pen-name "Mrs. Morley," under which 
Queen Anne conducted her historic cor- 
respondence with the Duchess of Marl- 
borough, who signed herself "Mrs. Free- 
man." On the other hand, "The Princess 
of Connemara" was the ambitious pseu- 
donym of Mrs. Mary Martin, an English 
novelist, and the dearly beloved 
"Duchess" proved to be Mrs. Margaret 
Hungerford. Occasionally it has hap- 
pened that nicknames have been bestowed 
upon writers, giving such happy results 
as Mrs. Holden's "Queen of Bohemia," 
Walt Whitman's "The Good Gray Poet," 
and Riley's "The Hoosier Poet." In the 
following instances the pen-names are a 
decided improvement, in point of brevity 
at least, on their owners' real ones. "Hall 
Caine" shows greater strength than does 
Thomas Henry Hall Caine. "Eugene 
Sue" is less cumbersome and, in this case, 
more appropriate than Marie Joseph Sue, 
and Gscar Wilde did equally well when 
he discarded three-fifths of his burden- 
some Gscar Fingall G'Flaherte Wills 
Wilde. So, too, did "Sadi," one of the 
most celebrated of Persian poets, who 
was known in private life as Shaikh 



Muslihu'd-Din. "Joaquin Miller," if 
harder to pronounce, looks quite as well 
in print as does Cincinnatus Heine; and 
no one can doubt that "Hesba Stretton" 
could sell twice as much manuscript as 
could any plain Sarah Smith. To an 
American, however, it does not seem as if 
Ibsen greatly improved matters when he 
published his first dramatic attempt, Cati- 
lina, a three-act tragedy, under the pseu- 
donym "Brynjolf Bjarme." 

The Morley Gladstone. 

In connection with the publication of 
Mr. Morley's life of Gladstone it may be 
worth noting that his literary career was 
very largely influenced by the late Mr. 
Cotter Morison, who died in 1888. Cot- 
ter Morison and John Morley studied to- 
gether at Lincoln College, Oxford, where 
they formed a firm friendship. Both of 
them were more or less influenced by 
Mark Pattison. On leaving the Univer- 
sity Morison married a daughter of Mr. 
Virtue, the publisher, who became pro- 
prietor of the Literary Gazette, Morley 
was appointed editor, and Morison was 
a copious contributor. Later on Morison 
became one of the founders and first pro- 
prietors of the Fortnightly Reznew, and 
it was due mainly to his influence that the 
editorship after G. H. Lewes had quitted 
it was given Mr. Morley. Trollope was 
also one of the proprietors, and Mr. Mor- 
ley has told the well-known story of Trol- 
lope's objection to him on the ground of 
his theological opinions. However, Trol- 
lope in his autobiography acknowledges 
the ability and success with which Mr. 
Morley managed the Rcznew. 

Miss Harraden's new book, Katharine 
Frensham, is divided into three parts. In 
the first and third parts the scene is laid 
in England, and in the second at a Nor- 
wegian farm; the English characters 
forming the central interest, having been 
transferred there for the summer holi- 
days. Miss Harraden has broken fresh 
ground in introducing us to the intimate 
peasant life and quaint customs of an in- 
terior valley of Norway, the Gudbrandsal. 
The development of the story goes on in 
an unusual environment ; the crisis itself 
takes place on the mountain-side near 
Peer Gynt's home. One of the most im- 
portant chapters in the book takes place 

up at a Saeter, in a wild, isolated part of 
the mountains. We are introduced to 
peasants of noble lineage, milkmaids, 
botanists, and guests of various nationali- 
ties, all gathered together at the farm; 
and all these people, though they all have 
their own distinct characteristics, are 
nevertheless touched in lightly, and are 
made strictly to contribute to the main 
idea of the book, which is the love story 
of Katharine Frensham, a woman of 
forty, and CliflFord Thornton, a professor 
of chemistry : the love story therefore of 
mature people. Miss Harraden in this 
book returns to her former style. Katha- 
rine Frensham is not a psychological 
study, but a story with a strong human 
element running through it. 

The Real Wyndbam Kid. 

About a year ago when it was included 
in the volume of stories printed under the 
title of Ranson's Folly, we expressed at 
some length our opinion of Mr. Richard 
Harding Davis's "The Bar Sinister." 
We are not sorry that this story's repub- 
lication in a separate volume as a holiday 
gift book gives us another opportunity to 
refer to it, because one cannot well say 
too much about so good a tale. We read 
so much about "literature" in these days 
that we have grown rather weary of the 
word. Nevertheless, of The Bar Sin- 
ister we are going to say that if it is not 
literature it is mighty near to it. The 
passage where the Wyndham Kid risen to 
afiluence and fame, a champion among 
champions, finds his poor old mother be- 
ing torn by three big dogs and flies to her 
rescue reaches the high water mark of Mr. 
Davis's talent — ^and that is saying con- 
siderable : 

And I sees something that makes me 
tremble down to my toes. In the road be- 
fore us three big dogs were chasing a little 
old lady dog. She had a string to her 
tail, where some boys had tied a can, and 
she was dirty with mud and ashes, and torn 
most awful. She was too far done up to 
get away, and too old to help herself, but 
she was making a fight for her life, snap- 
ping her old gums savage, and dying game. 
All this I sees in a wink, and then the three 
dogs pinned her down, and I can't stand 
it no longer, and clears the wheel and lands 
in the road on my head. It was my stylish 
overcoat done that, and I cursed it proper. 


tii^^^Hi- 'i''^^^' 

« I 
^ 1 

2 1 










IN lKiliW\\"aQ CKK^Va, 



but I gels my pais again quick, and makes 
a rush for the tightinB. Behind me I hear 
Miss Dorothy cry: "They'll kill that old 
dog. Wait, take my whip; beat them off 
her! The Kid can take care of himself"; 
and I hear Nolan fall into the road, and 
Ihe horse come to a stop. The old lady 
dog was down, and the three was eating 
her vicious; but as I come up. scattering 
the pebbles, she hears, and thinking it is 
ore more of them, 
she lifts her head, 
and my heart 
breaks open like 
some one had 
sunk his teeth in- 
to it. For, under 
the ashes and the 
dirt and the blood, 

is, and I know 
thai my mother 
has come back to 

I gives a x=l' 
that throws them 
three dogs oSE 
their legs. 

" M o t h e 
ies. "I'n 

Kid," I cries. 'Tr 

to the American kennels and for two 
years carried off many blue ribbons and 
Clips. Jimmy Jocks, the haughty but 
good-natured dog who in Tlie Bar Sin- 
ister constituted himself the Kid's social 
mentor, was in real life Woo<lcote Jumbo, 
or "Jaggers," an aristocratic son of a long 
line of English champions. "He has 
gone to that place where some day all 
good dogs must go." 

The Puriwn Pil- 
grim's Progress. 

Without wish- 
ing in any way to 
deprecate the 
vahie of The Pil- 
grim's Progress 
as a great religi- 
ous allegory, we 
feel sorry for any 
one who did not 
as a child read it 
first as a story of 
prodigious adven- 
ture. In the mat- 
ter of dramatic 
incident we class 
John Bunyan's 
book with the 
works of Dnmas 
and Scott, or to 
come down to 
more recent times, 
with those of Mr. 
Anthony Hope or 
Sir Arthur Conan 
Doyle. This is, 
of course, if you 
have read it at the 
right age. What 
ToF'DEiTH, 's there in fiction 

more exciting 
than Christian's 
battle with .-\poilyon, or more, dread -in- 
spiring than (he horrors of the Valley of 
the Shadow of Death? 

In the preface 
to the new holi- 
day edition, Mr. 
Davis has given 
some interesting 

infnrmalinii LUItlSTIAN 

K . .1. ■ ■ i "'»■ 'HE 8HAUC 

about the original 

of the Wynd- 

ham Kid. Professionally, ihc Kid in 

real life is known as Edgewood Cold 

Steel, but to his intimates he is still the the Shadow of Death ? You may search 

"Kid." His father, the Regent Royal of in vain through all the historical ro- 

the story, was Lord Minto, a thorough- mances that ever were written to find 

bred bull terrier well known in Canada. 
The story is that his mother was a black 
and tan of doubtful pedigree answering 
to the name of A'ic. Among her off- 
spring by Lord Minlo was the only white 
Euppy, Kid, in a litter of black and tans, 
lid made his first apiKarance in the show 
world in Toronto in iQCW. and on that 
occasion was easily first. Then he came 

a finer hero of the swashbuckling order 
than Mr, Greathcart, who with imper- 
turbable .(rtJi.s; froid slew lions, dared 
the dangers of the Vallev and finally 
chopped off the head of Giant Despair 
and destroved Doubting Castle. 
Every good new edition of The Pilgrim's 
Progress is certain of a hearty welcome. 



and the latest one that appears is marked 
by an idea that is so good and so much to 
the point that we wonder why it has not 
been seized upon before. The idea is that 
of giving, in the illustrations, the char- 
acters of the book the costumes and the 
environment of the days in which Bunyan 
lived and wrote. All the scenes of the 
story, \'anity Fair, the \'allcy of the 
Shadow of Death, the \'alley of Humilia- 
t i o n. Doubting 
Castle, the Delect- 
able Mountain, the 
Slough of Dc- 
spomi, grew out 
of the famihar 
country about 
Elstow and Bed- 
ford, and without 
doubt the people 
of the story were 
in liunyan's brain 
arrayed in the 
cavalier and 
Roundhead dress, 
which in the il- 
lustrations of the 
present edition is 
used for the first 
time. In Eng- 
land this new edi- 
tion is being sold 
at the price of two 
guineas ; but the 
-American pub- 
lishers, the 
Messrs. Fleming 
H. Revel! Com- 
pany have decided 
to issue it at a 
popular price. 

The Story of Owen Kildare. 
Last spring there appeared a book en- 
titled The Journal of Arthur SlWVin^, 
which purported to tell the story of a 
voiing genius striving for recognition in 
New York, how he wrote a great book, 
how he eked out a living as a car con- 
ductor while waiting fame, how he met 
with constant rebuffs from fat-wittetl 
publishers, how a wicked editor baselv 
deceived him, and how at last, utterly 
worn out he put an end to his life bv 
throwing himself inio the Hudson River. 
The book was a worthless thing, utter- 
ly silly, hysterical, and at times blas- 

phemous, and entirely failed of the no- 
toriety for which the author had hoped. 
When we spoke of it in these pages we 
had no idea who the author was, but we 
characterised it as "a vulgar and impu- 
dent humbug," and we have since come 
ti' the conclusion that we erred on the 
side of leniency. At any rate we had 
utterly forgotten the book until the other 
day we picked up My Maimc Rose. Not 
that the two books 
are so much alike, 
but one somehow 
suggests the oth- 
er. The Journal 
of Arthur Stir- 
ling was dishon- 
est throughout ; 
on the other hand, 
ve believe Owen 
Kildare to be sin- 
cere. Only his 
book seems to be 
unnecessary and 
he seems to have 
missed such op- 
portunities as he 
had. Wc do not 
wish to bethought 
to be speaking 
disrespectfully or 
lightly of an early 
Iwdy of workers 
who undoubtedly 
do an immense 
amount of good 
and whom we re- 
regard with ad- 
miration, when 
wc say that My 
Mamie Rose is 
simply the "ex- 
perience" of a re- 
formed Salvation Army sidewalk ex- 
hortcr, expanded into a book of three 
hundred pages. 

In a letter, which the publishers "feature" 

prominently on the cover wrapper, Mr. 
Hall Caiiic is quoted as writing of My 
Mamie Rose as "a real transcript from 
life." As the greater part of the book is 
given up to an account of the pleasures 
of the Bowery and experiences in such 
edifying resorts as Tim Callahan's and 
Barney Flynn's and Billy McGlory's, we 
venture the opinion of the Earl ot Pa.'H- 



1 f '"bT^^ 





tucket in the play, that Mr, Hall Caine 
is probably "spoofing — talking through 
his hat," At any rate we hasten to ac- 
quit him of the specific knowledge which 
his unqualified statement seems to sug- 
gest. Briefly, the true story of Uwen 
Kildare as told in My Mamie Rose 
is that he was born in Catherine Street 
in 1864, orphaned in his infancy, and 
adopted by a childless couple, became a 
Park Row newsboy, then a "beer slinger" 
in a tough Bowery dive, then won some 
local fame in the prize ring and became a 
bouncer in an infamous resort. That was 
Owen Kildare's life until he was thirty 
years of age. He could neither read nor 
write, but acquired a comfortable living 
by guiding sightseers through the slums, 
and by various methods of "graft." But 
one day he met a little school teacher and 
protected her from insult in the approved 
Chimniie Fadden style, and that was the 
beginning of his regeneration. She 
taught him to read and write and made a 
man of him. She was the Mamie Rose, 

but she died one month before they were 
to be married. Her work, however, was 
done. Owen Kildare kept up the strug- 
gle, and at the present time is beginning 
a career as a literary worker which his 
publishers regard as "promising." We 
regret to say that we do not entirely share 
their optimism. 

An Expoaer of Municipal Corruption. 

Few sociological articles of recent 
years have aroused such interest and dis- 
cussion as Lincoln Steffens on the cor- 
ruption and mismanagement in the gov- 
ernment of the leading American cities. 
And they have served a purpose. St. 
Louis was at first angry, called a mass 
meeting to deny everything and denounce 
Mr. Steffens and raised a fund to protest 
and prove its innocence. Soon after- 
wards when Mr. Steffens visited St. 
Louis ho was well received and asked to 
write another such article by the very 
man who was charged with the organisa- 


(Sm The Drama of tlia Month ) 




tion of the public's protest. The article 
had aroused the town. After it appeared 
200,000 buttons, bearing the inscription 
"Folk and Good Government," were 
worn on the streets to make plain the 
public's approval of the young district 
attorney, who, after being elected by 
the machine, owned no master but his 
conscience, and fought practically alone 
for the arrest, conviction and imprison- 
ment of the bribers and grafters who 
were looting St. Louis. This alone was 
acknowledgment of the truth of "Tweed 
Days in St. Louis,*' and "The shameless- 
ness of St. Louis." Although an asso- 
ciate editor of McClure's Magazine, Mr. 
Steffens still calls himself a "newspaper 
man." "And these articles," he said "are 
straight journalism. I made no attempt 
at fine writing, I thought merely of tell- 
ing the story. This month's magazine 
will contain my last 'story' — at least for 
a while — on the criminal condition of 
our municipal governments. It will be 
about New York. Soon I shall begin a 
series along the same lines on the States." 

Mr. Steffens's boyhood was spent for 
the most part on horseback in riding for 
days at a time over Sacramento Valley 
with gun and fishing-rod across his sad- 
dle-bow. From Sacramento, California, 
he went to the military school at San 
Mateo, then to the University of Cali- 
fornia where he was graduated in 1889. 
To pursue further the study of philosophy, 
sociology, history, politics, and political 
economy he went to the Universities of 
Berlin, Heidelberg, Leipzig, and of France. 
It was his father's idea that he acquire a 
thorough academic training and then pre- 
pare to engage in business. But in Leip- 
zig he fell in love with a fellow student at 
the Sorbonne and married her secretly in 
I-ondon. After quietly studying at the Brit- 
tish Museum, he sailed for New York. It 
was then that Mr. Steffens found himself 
with two people to support and no taste 
for dependence ; he tried his hand at fic- 
tion. His first story he copied carefully 
and Louis Loeb, whom he had met with 
other artists in Paris, illustrated it and 
took it to Harper's. It was accepted and 
Mr. Steffens received $45. "I thought," 
he says, "here's a living — I can write one 
a week. But it was two years before I 
had another story or article accepted by 

a magazine. In resplendent raiment and 
a top hat I sought to persuade newspaper 
editors to give me a trial, but not only 
my appearance, but my academic course 
stood in my light. At last, I got a posi- 
tion on the Evening Post on space. They 
did not want me, but simply took me be- 
cause of my persistency. I worked in a 
panic of fear. My first assignment was 
about a clergyman who had retired and 
another had taken his place. The first 
week I earned $1.75. Of an indolent 
nature, that experience was the best pos- 
sible for me. Scared, with responsibili- 
ties on my shoulders, jostled by men, not 
theories, I 'hustled to beat the band.' I 
made good and was put on rapid transit. 
Henry J. Wright, city editor of the Post, 
kept giving me assignments just a little 
over my head. Then there was a panic 
in Wall Street, and our financial reporter 
being in London, the Post was caught. I 
was asked to cover Wall Street. It was 
a trying assignment for a green man. 
First I went to a few of the principal 
bankers. I told them my predicament 
and the Post's, and assured them if they 
would give me the information I would 
never break their confidence, and would 
make up in accuracy and carefulness what 
I lacked in knowledge of the Street. In 
consequence the Post had many beats, 
and I knew things weeks before they oc- 

"When, in 1893, Dr. Parkhurst set out 
upon the trail of vice and corruption in 
New York City which resulted in the ap- 
pointment of Mr. Roosevelt as President 
of the Police Board, I was detailed to 
Police Headquarters, and remained there 
several years. It was there I *got on to,' 
political and police methods, particularly 
those of corruption. I had studied books ; 
there I studied realities and conditions to 
such advantage that now I can go into a 
strange city and with my knowledge of 
New York methods understand their pe- 
culiar methods of corruption. Although 
confronted with positive realities and 
learning of partly successful ways of re- 
lief I have never lost the theoretical inter- 
est garnered by years of study." As in his 
articles on corruption in the cities in Mc- 
Clure's Magazine, Mr. Steffens did not 
mince matters, and no one's position in the 
community was a surety of his non-ex- 
posure in the Post. He was of acknowl- 



edged assistance to Mr. Roosevelt. "Mr. 
Steffens was a pessimist/' said Mr. Jacob 
A. Riis, who first met him at Police 
Headquarters and beside whom he 
worked, "while I was an optimist. I be- 
lieved in the police force, while Mr. Stef- 
fens believed it guilty till proven inno- 
cent. Nothing escaped him. Publicity 
was his motto. Mr. Roosevelt believed 
and believes in publicity more than legis- 
lation to start the ball rolling in the right 
direction; recently he said to me that it 
was the only real remedy for trusts and 
corruption. Mr. Steffens turned on the 
lime-light and showed crime which hides in 
dark places. His work for the Post gave 
promise of all the strength shown in his 
late articles. They are having the effect, 
too, which their writer desired." 

The effect of all this, on his own for- 
tunes, was that Mr. Steffens, who only a 
few years before "had not been wanted" 
was made assistant-city editor of the Post. 
And Mr. Wright, city editor, diametri- 
cally opposed to many of his ideas and of 
an opposite temperament, realising his 
genuineness, earnestness, and ability 
gave him as free a rein as possible. But 
not alone in his articles from Police 
Headquarters had Mr. Steffens drawn at- 
tention to himself — weekly there had ap- 
peared in the Post stories of the East 
Side, particularly of the Jews, their 
quaint customs and celebration of days; 
and also labour news of the city, faithful 
reporting of strikes telling the whole 
truth without any partial leaning to 
Labour or Capital, although the paper 
for which he wrote was called a "capital- 
istic organ." "It was then I learned," 
says Mr. Steffens, "that there never was 
a strike where one side was all in the 
right or all in the wrong." His stories, 
fiction and etherise, laid in the foreign 
quarters of the metropolis became a fea- 
ture of the Post. He wrote two articles 
for Scribner's for the series "Great Busi- 
ness Enterprises," one on high building 
as a business; and the other on news- 
papers as a business. About that time the 
editors of McClure's Magazine accepted 
from him stories laid in his peculiar field 
(some fiction) concerning police and 
politics. Gradually Mr. Steffens was 
working his way as he had planned from 
newspapers into the magazines. 

He always contended that newspaper 
reporting should be made a stepping 
stone into magazine and kindred walk, 
or to some kind of specialisation in jour- 
nalism, literature or business. When 
Mr. Wright became Editor of the Com- 
mercial Advertiser, and Mr. Steffens 
City Editor, he emphasised this and in- 
stilled ambition into his reportorial staff. 
Then was tried an experiment in jour- 
nalism of so audacious and revolution- 
ary a character, that even Mr. Wright, 
who had given Mr. Steffens his head, 
was doubtful of its expediency. Mr. 
Steffens endeavoured to abolish the tra- 
ditional way of handhng a "story." There 
was to be no Commercial Advertiser style 
as there is a Sun style and a Herald style. 
Every reporter was encouraged to de- 
velop an individual style. In conse- 
quence Mr. Steffens got rid of as many 
old newspaper men on the Commercial 
Advertiser as possible; discouraged the 
employing of any but novices with un- 
formed ideas of the way of writing a 
newspaper article ; and stepped out of the 
beaten path by asking for the develop- 
ment of all the human interest and atmos- 
phere of an incident, to present to the 
reader a graphic pictorial impression first, 
thus to win his sympathy and interest, 
while still stating the cold bare facts 
without any reportorial license or lean- 
ings. It created the keenest rivalry in 
the office. Every man tried to tell the 
best story, and after the last edition had 
come off the presses they sat around and 
criticised goodnaturedly each other's 
work. Mr. Steffens during his regime 
developed six magazine men or book- 
makers. Many after he became, in the 
fall of 1901, Managing Editor of Mc- 
Clure's Magazine, went into other fields, 
and now few of his old men remain on 
the Commercial Advertiser. Those who 
do, still instil into their articles some of 
Mr. Steffens's ideas in handling a story. 

Mr. S. S. McClure was abroad when 
Mr. Steffens became Managing Editor of 
McClure^s and on his return in the spring 
of 1903 scathingly discountenanced him 
on his management. He said he did not 
know the first thing about managing a 
magazine. "Well, how may I learn?** 
asked Mr. Steffens. "Get out and sec 
the country,'* replied Mr. McClure, 



"travel, go abroad and observe people, 
conditions and things." "And Mr. Mc- 
Qure was right," said Mr. Steflfens. "A 
man cannot t^ a successful editor who sits 
forever in his office." He accordingly 
mapped out a route and started on the 
discovery of the United States. In every 
city and town he talked with the politi- 
cians, business men and editors and asked 
them what they knew of interest and 
what was new. The editor of the Kansas 
City Star said, "Of course you have heard 
of Joe Folk ?" He hadn't, and all through 
the West politicians and editors asked ti^e 
same question. When he arrived in Chi- 
cago it was the same query ; "Of course 
you have heard of Joe Folk ?" He deter- 
mined to see Joe Folk and learn what he 
was doing. Taking without delay a train 
for St. CDuis, he talked with Mr. Folk, 
and employed a local newspaper man, 
Mr. Whitmore, familiar with St. Louis, 
to write a story of the deplorable condi- 
tion of the city's government and the 
fight Mr. Folk was making against it. 
Mr. McClure liked the subject, but was 
dissatisfied with its treatment. He thought 
it could be enlarged upon and certain 
points emphasised. Mr. Steffens col- 
laborated with Mr. Whitmore, with the 
result the first article, "Tweed Days in 
St. Louis." "As in my subsequent articles 
I did no detective work. I got corruption 
from corruptionists, bribery from those 
who bribed and were bribed. I inter- 
viewed successfully political bosses, poli- 
ticians and business men. I find the lat- 
ter class in every city largely responsible, 
most frequently in a criminal way, for 
bad conditions ; encouraging and abetting 
them. From politicial bosses I got a 
great deal of help. I interested them 
by drawing comparison between the way 
*tfiings' are done in their city and New 
York and other cities. None of these 
men are loth to tell something of what 
they know. As a matter of fact they 
have a strange pride in what they do. 

Besides they consider me 'on the level' 
because I do not discriminate but expose 
them, business men and judges alike. 
Then I never tell all of the truth. I don't 
have to— one-tenth is sufficient to make 
any decent man rise feeling outraged. 

"If a police captain receives $20,000 as 
grafter a month, I say that much a year. 
People are incredulous. If there was a 
steal of $1,000,000 I say $500,000. Not 
once have I told anywhere near all I 
know and can prove. It is not necessary. 
The effect is gained just as well. Every 
article I have written has been an under- 
statement. And that, perhaps, is why 
the politicians do not complain, but often 
approve of them as 'fair.' Senator Finn's 
comment on 'Pittsburg, a City Ashamed,' 
I hear, was 'correct and well written.' I 
cut 'Philadelphia Corrupt and Contented* 
from 30,000 words to a few thousand." 
Mr. Steffens has been invited often by 
other cities to expose their rings, but al- 
though he has studied Baltimore, Qeve- 
land, Detroit and others, he will not do 
so at present. Odd to say, although he 
has attacked and exposed high and low, 
he has not once been called to account 
by mouth or letter, except in the case of 
a man in Minneapolis, whom he did not 
mention by name but only by office, and 
who took offense at being called a poli- 
tician. On the contrary he has received 
hundreds of letters giving him informa- 
tion. One well-known politician actually 
followed him to Chicago, from Chicago 
to New York, and back to Chicago to talk 
to him and give him some information and 
"pointers." Another thing Mr. Steffens 
has remarked is that although none takes 
umbrage at the truth you tell about them 
the smallest untruth, no matter how 
trivial creates the greatest offense. "Bath- 
house John" of Chicago felt outraged be- 
cause a local newspaper man said he was 
bom in a little village out in Illinois. 

/. t 




In the night so dark and dreamless, 

Dreamless and dark and still, 
There comes a gracious presence, 

Stepping across the hill, 

Stepping across the city, 

Over the waiting lawn, 
Journeying on and onward, 

From darkness into dawn. 

Lo, in the Autumn morning, 

I look from my window's height. 

And see her fast retreating, 
Lost in the halls of light ; 

Just a ghost on the hillside, 

The smoke of her dusky hair. 
The wealth of a million jewels 

Shimmering through the air. 

Hail to our gracious Lady! 

Her kindly work is done, 
And the whole round world is laughing 

Under the rising sun! 

Herbert Mullet Hopkins. 



THIRTY years ago there was a 
magazine published in New 
York called the Galaxy. It 
was edited by W. C. and F. P. 
Church. It was absorbed by the Atlantic 
about a quarter of a century ago; but 
during its brief and brilliant career it 

Eublished many of the essays which Mr. 
[enry James afterward collected into his 
French Poets and Novelists; and it con- 
tained the chief of the papers which the 
late Grant White made into his volume on 
Words and Their Uses. It was hospit- 
able to the novels of Charles Reade and 
of Mr. Justin McCarthy ; and it also pub- 
lished a series of papers by the latter 
dealing with the chief literary personali- 
ties of Great Britain. One of these 
Kpers on "George Eliot and George 
iwes" was printed in the Galaxy for 
June, 1869. 
In this paper, written on this side of 

the Atlantic, Mr. McCarthy asserted that 
"Charles Reade is more generally and 
more warmly admired here than in 
England." And he went on to ask : "Am 
I wrong in supposing that the reverse is 
the case with regard to the authoress of 
Romola and The Mill on the Floss? All 
American critics, and all American read- 
ers of taste, have doubtless testified prac- 
tically their recognition of the genius of 
this extraordinary woman; but there 
seems to me to be relatively less admira- 
tion for her in New York than in Lon- 
don. The general verdict of English [i.e. 
British] criticism would, I feel no doubt, 
place George Eliot on a higher pedestal 
than Charles Dickens." It may be noted 
that both Dickens and George Eliot were 
alive when this was written. Mr. Mc- 
Carthy included in his remarks a state- 
ment that he regarded George Eliot "as 
the greatest living novelist of England,** 



and a criticism of Charles Reade's style 
as having "masculine force and clear- 
ness," although it was "terribly irregular 
and rough." 

Charles Reade impressed a recent re- 
viewer of a recent biography of him as 
"a giant baby, impulsive, peevish, frantic, 
violent, strong-headed, soft-hearted by 
turns." This impression may not be 
absolutely accurate, but it emphasises 
certain of his peculiarities. One of these 
peculiarities not included was a willing- 
ness to«talk about himself and an extreme 
frankness in declaring his own merits. 
He was infuriated by this article of Mr. 
McCarthy's and he was wounded that it 
had appeared in a periodical which he 
had supposed to be friendly to him. As 
soon as he had read the article he wrote 
a letter to the editors of the Galaxy, — a 
letter which Col. W. C. Church published 
not long ago. Probably no more char- 
acteristic epistle ever proceeded from 
the pen of an exacerbated author : — 

2 Albert Terrace, Knightsbridge, 

June 8, 1869. 

Dear Sir: You side with fools and liars 
against me. You have published, without a 
word of disclaimer, a diatribe in which George 
Eliot is described as the first of English novel- 
ists, and her style, which is in reality a medi- 
ocre, monotonous style, with no music and 
no beauty in it, is described as perfect, and 
my style, which on proper occasions, is polished 
beyond the conception of George Eliot, or 
anjr such writer, is condemned wholesale as 
sadly rugged, &c. And this in a monthly which 
contains a story by me. It does appear strange 
to me that you, who have got the cock salmon, 
should allow this ass * * * to tell your 
readers that the trout is a bigger fish than the 
cock salmon. 

Now hear the real truth. George Eliot is a 
writer of the second class, who has the ad- 
vantage of being better read than most novel- 
ists. She has also keen powers of observa- 
tion and reasoning. 

She has no imagination of the higher kind, 
and no power of construction, nor dramatic 
power. She has a little humour, whereas most 
women have none; and a little pathos. But 
she has neither pathos nor humour enough to 
make anybody laugh nor anybody cry. 

Her style is grave, sober, and thoughtful; 
but it lacks fire, tune, and variety. 

She has been adroit enough to disavow the 
sensational, yet to use it as far as her feeble 

powers would let her. Her greatest quality 
of all is living with an anonymous writer, who 
has bought the English press for a time and 
puffed her into a condition she cannot main- 
tain, and is gradually losing. 

Why lend yourself to a venal English lie? 
TWs George Eliot is all very well as long as 
she confines herself to the life and character 
she saw with her own eye's down in Warwick- 
shire when she was young. But the moment 
imagination is required she is done. Let any 
man read true books about the Middle Ages 
and then read Romola — he will at once be 
struck with two things: That the records of 
the Middle Ages are a grand romance full of 
noble material and character and situation, and 
that this unhappy scribbler of novels has so 
dealt with that gigantic theme as to dwarf it 
to her own size. When you have waded 
through the watery waste of Romola, what re- 
mains upon the mind? 

A little Florence, a faint description of petty 
politics not worth mentioning. A little Sav- 
onarola depicted, not sculptured. A young 
lady called Romola, who is not mediaeval at all, 
but a delicate-minded young woman of the 
nineteenth century and no other. And a hero 
who is — Mr. George Lewes. 
,. Now read a mediaeval novel by Scott, or 
even The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles 
Reade. Do these works miss all the grand 
features of the Middle Ages as this poor un- 
imaginative scribbler has done; or do they 
transport you out of this ignorant present into 
a ruder and more romantic age? Verbum 

\I will only add that in all her best novels 
the best idea is stolen from me and her thefts 
are not confined to ideas and situations; they 
go as far as similes, descriptions, and lines of 
text. Believe me, the pupil is never above her 

This last fact coupled with the persistent 
detraction I meet from my fair pupil's satellites 
in the English press will, I hope, excuse this 
burst of bile. 

Seriously, however, and setting my personal 
feelings out of the question, do not you under- 
rate the judgment of the American public in 
this case; nor overrate the judgment of the 
English press. 

The public is an incorruptible judge; the 
press is a corruptible judge, and peculiar 
facilities were offered in G. Eliot's case for 
buying the English press, and they have been 
purchased and repurchased accordingly. I am 
yours, very truly, Chakles Reads. 



Two years or so after this letter had 
been written the London periodical called 
Once a Week was purchased by Mr. 
James Rice ; and in its pages in January, 
1872, appeared the opening chapters of 
an anonymous serial story called "Ready- 
Money Mortiboy." The secret of the 
collaboration to which this novel was due, 
was kept very carefully; and there was 
much wonder as to the identity of the 
new writer. Mr. Justin McCarthy, who 
had then returned to England, wrote to 
an American paper for which he was the 
London correspondent, that some critics 
believed "Ready-Money Mortiboy" to be 
the work of Charles Reade, and that if 
this was not the fact the new writer had 
been strongly influenced by Reade. 

In the same number of Once a Week 
in which appeared the first chapters of 
the first story which the editor was writ- 
ing in collaboration with his friend, Wal- 
ter Besant, there appeared also the first 
of a series of wood-cut cartoon-portraits 
of celebrities of the day, drawn by Mr. 
F. Waddy. The first of these was a 
sketch of the Tichbome claimant and the 
fourth was a portrait of Charles Reade, — 
this being the earliest of the series to deal 
with a man of letters. The cartoon-por- 
traits were none of them malicious ; and 
the articles that accompanied the sketches 
were frankly complimentary. That de- 
voted to Charles Reade might fairly be 
termed flattery. Indeed it had obviously 
been written by a strong admirer of the 
masculine story-teller; and it dwelt at 
length upon the comparison between him 
and George Eliot, which had filled so 
much space in the letter Reade had writ- 
ten nearly three years earlier to the edi- 
tors of the Galaxy, For a reason which 
will be given later this article deserves re- 
production here in full; and the accom- 
panying cartoon also : — 


The first of our series of cartoon portraits 
of men of letters appears in the present num- 
ber. The subject of it, Mr. Charles Reade, is 
the youngest son of the late John Reade, 
Esquire, of Ipsden House, Oxfordshire. Mr. 
Reade is an Oxford man (he took his B.A. 
degree in 1835), and is a Doctor of Civil Law, 
and a fellow of Magdalen College in that uni- 
versity. He was called to the bar by the 
Honourable Society of Lincoln's Inn in 1843. 
We have put Charles Reade first on our list 

for the two following reasons — ^because (i) 
he is the greatest living English writer of 
fiction; (2) his two splendid stories, A Good 
Fight and Foul Play, did so much for the 
success of Once a Week. 

A Good Fight, with three volumes of new 
matter added to it, was subsequently called 
The Cloister and the Hearth. 

Charles Reade's earliest stories were fol- 
lowed, in 1856, by that powerful work of his 
genius, It Is Never too Late to Mend. The 
book created a great sensation: was read by 
everybody: effected its author's purpose — viz., 
compelled the public to insist that the Model 
Prisons' system should be looked searchingly 

From the publication of Peg WoMngton, 
Charles Reade has continued to apply his great 
talents to the work of writing novels and 
dramas; with what success, every reader of 
fiction knows. 

The annexed complete list of his writings 
will give a correct idea of the extent of his 
productions in the difficult field of the Litera- 
ture of Imagination, in which he has chosen 
to exercise his genius. 


Peg WoMngton i 

Christie Johnstone I 

{Clouds and Sunshine 1 
Propria qu<e Marihus \ I 
Art J 

It is Never too Late to Mend 3 

Love me Little, Love me Long 2 

{Autobiography of a Thief ) 
Jack of all Trades ) I 

White Lies 3 

Eighth Commandment I 

The Cloister and the Hearth 4 

Hard Cash 3 

Griffith Gaunt 3 

Foul P/ayt 3 

Put Yourself in His Place 3 

A Terrible Temptation •.. 3 

*Under title of "Cream." 

tWith Dion Boucicault. 


The Ladies' Battle Translation. 

The Village Tale Three-act drama. 

The Lost Husband Four*act drama. 

Masks and Faces* Two-act comedy. 

Gold Drama, five acts. 

Two Loves and a Life* Drama, four acts. 

The King's Rival* Comedy, five acts. 

The First Printer* Drama, three acts. 

*With Tom Taylor. 


The Courier of Lyons Drama, three a 

Honor Before Titles Drama, three a 

ItisNeverlooLatetoMend.V)n.Tm,.&vt act 

GrUSlh Gaunt Drama, five act 

Foul Play Drama, five act 

Dora Pastoral drama, 

three acts. 

The Double Marriage Drama, five acts. 

Put Yourself in His Place. . Drama, five acts. 
The Robust Invalid Comedy ,three acta. 




This list shows that Charles Reade is the 
author, or joint-author — in four plays and one 
novel — of seventeen different stories, ranging 
in length from one- third of a volume to four 
volumes: and of an equal number of dra- 
matic works. 

Now it certainly argues some want of real 
knowledge or study in the critics of this day, 
that they cannot assign his place, whatever that 
may be, to this writer. They can place in- 
ferior authors; but they really and honestly 
have no notion where this man stands either 
as a novelist, or dramatist, or both. Perhaps 
it may tend to clear this absolute fog, envelop- 
ing the judgment of our contemporaries, if we 
descend from the indefinite to the definite, and 
compare him with a writer of acknowledged 
excellence. We are so fortunate as to possess 
in this country a novelist who, if contem- 
porary criticism were to be trusted, is the 
greatest writer of fiction the world ever saw. 
With regard to Shakespeare, contemporary 
criticism has left but two remarks in print, 
both of them unfavourable. Corneille was so 
often lashed, and so little praised, that he has 
left a line behind him to celebrate the fact. 

"J*ai peu des voix pour moi, mais je les ai 
sans brigue." 

Moliere was denounced as a plagiarist. Vol- 
taire was well lashed. Scott did not quite 
escape. Bulwer has been severely criticised. 
Even Dickens was always roughly handled in 
certain respectable prints. 

But George Eliot is faultless. This is the 
sober and often-repeated verdict of every quar- 
terly, monthly, and daily critic in the empire, 
except of one old woman, who tried to stem 
the torrent of adulation, in the "Quarterly Re- 
view," and failed, because, being no critic, she 
selected certain of that excellent writer's 
beauties, and held them up for faults. 

Now perhaps some people will open their 
eyes if we tell them that this prodigious writer 
often borrows ideas from Charles Reade, and 
sometimes improves them, sometimes bungles 
them. But as in matters of art it is sometimes 
kind to open people's eyes, we shall assure you 
that this is so; and moreover that in a single 
instance the two writers have come into com- 
petition on fair terms, and the comparison is 
so unfavourable to the favourite, that the said 
comparison, though obvious, has always been 
dexterously avoided. 

In It Is Never Too Late to Mend, pub- 
lished in 1856, one of the situations is as fol- 
lows: Good Mr. Eden, having to deal with a 
hardened thief, goes down on his knees in that 

thiefs cell, and prays aloud for him; and 
softens him a little. 

In Adam Bede, good Dinah goes on her 
knees in the cell of Hetty, an impenitent crimi- 
nal ; and softens her a little. 

Reade uses few words, after his kind; and 
Eliot uses many words, after her kind. But 
amplification is not invention: the inventor 
and the only inventor of that famous scene in 
Adam Bede is Charles Reade. 

Mr. Eden preaches a sermon in the gaol. 
The author shuns the beaten track, and gives 
the very words of the sermon. 

George Eliot profits by this, and gives her 
Dinah the very words of a sermon. And in 
one respect she goes beyond her original: for 
her sermon is fuller, and has a distinct merit, 
being composed — with great art and beauty — 
of homely English, often Saxon, and nearly 
always monosyllabic. But she falls behind in 
one thing, she makes Dinah preach her ser- 
mon to strangers; and that shows a want of 
constructive art. 

Charles Reade has since returned to his own 
invention, and has made his Rhoda Somerset 
preach a remarkable sermon, at which those 
personages are present whom that sermon hits. 
This is art. A sermon, preached to the reader 
only, is a mere excrescence on the narrative. 
It is a wart, though it may not be a blot. 

The only situation of any power in The Mill 
On the Floss — viz., the heroine and her lover 
drifting loose in a boat, and being out to- 
gether all night — is manifestly taken from the 
similar situation in "Love me little, love me 
long." But Eliot's treatment of the borrowed 
incident is petty and womanish by comparison 
with her model. 

In Felix Holt, the ground is admirably laid 
for strong situations: but in the actual treat- 
ment only two come out dramatically, and they 
are both borrowed. The young gentleman 
going to strike his steward, and being met by 
"I am your Father." And the heroine going 
into the witness-box to give evidence for her 
lover. The former is borrowed from an old 
novel, and the latter from Charles Reade's 
Hard Cash; and it may be instructive to show 
how the inventor and the imitator deal with 
the idea. 

We print in parallel columns quotations of 
the evidence given in court by both novelists' 



(Vol. iii.. p. 294. 1863.) 
Julia Dodd entered 
the box, and a sun- 
beam seemed to fill 

Filli IMt, tlw Ksiiail. 


(Vol. 111., p. 228. 1866.) 
There was no blush 
upon her face: she 
stood, divested of all 



the court. She knew 
what to do: her left 
hand wa« gloved, but 
her white right hand 
bare. She kissed the 
book, and gave her 
evidence In her clear, 
mellow, melting voice: 
gave it reverently and 
modestly, for to her 
the court was a 
church. She said how 
long she had been ac- 
quainted with Alfred, 
and how his father 
was adverse, and her 
mother had thought it 
was because they did 
not pass for tich. and 
had told her they 
were rich; and with 
this she produced 
David's letter, and she 
also swore to having 
met Alfred and others 
carrying her father In 
a swoon from his fa- 
ther's very door. She 
deposed to Alfred's 
sanity on her wed- 
ding-eve. and on the 
day his recapture was 

Saunders. against 
his own Judgment, 
was instructed to 
cross-examine her; 
and. without meaning 
it, he put a question 
which gave her deep 

••Are you now en- 
gaged to the plain - 

She looked timidly 
round, and saw Alfred, 
and hesitated. The 
Serjeant pressed her 
politely, but firmly. 

•'Must I reply to 
that?*' she said pite- 

•'If you please." 

•'Then, no. Another 
misfortune has now 
separated him and me 
for ever." 

••What is that, 

••My father is said 
to have died at sea: 
and my mother thinlcs 
he is to blame." 

The Judge to Saun- 
ders. — What on earth 
has this to do with 
Hardie against Har- 

Saunders. — You are 
warmly interested in 
the plaintifT's success? 

Julia. — Oh, yes, sir. 

(Colt, aside to Gar- 
row. — The fool is put- 
ting his foot into it: 
there's not a Jury in 
England that would 
give a verdict to part 
two interesting young 

Saunders. — You are 
attached to him? 

Jalia.~Ah I that I <lo. 

This burst, intended 
for poor Alfred, not 
the court, baffled 
cross-examination and 
grammar and every- 
thing else. Saunders 
was wise and gener* 
ous, and laid no more. 

personal considera- 
tions, whether of van- 
ity or shyness. Her 
clear voice soimded as 
it might have done if 
she had been making 
a confession of faith. 
She began and went 
on without query or 
interruption. Every 
face looked grave and 

"I am EjSther Lyon, 
the daughter of Mr. 
Lyon, the Independent 
minister at Treby, 
who has been one of 
the witnesses for the 
prisoner. I knew Felix 
Holt well. On the day 
of the election at 
Treby, when I had 
been much alarmed by 
the noises that reached 
me from the main 
street, Felix Holt 
came to call upon me. 
He knew that my 
father was away, and 
he thought that I 
should be alarmed by 
the sounds of disturb- 
ance. It was about 
the middle of the day, 
and he came to tell me 
that the disturbance 
was quieted, and that 
the streets were nearly 
emptied. But he said 
he feared that the 
men would collect 
again after drinking, 
and that something 
worse might happen 
later in the day. And 
he was in much sad- 
ness at this thought. 
He stayed a little 
while, and then he left 
me. He was very mel- 
ancholy. His mind was 
full of great resolu- 
tions, that came from 
his kind feeling to- 
wards others. It was 
the last thing he would 
have done to Join in 
riot or to hurt any ' 
man, if he could have 
helped it. His nature 
is very noble: he is 
tender - hearted: h e 
could never have had 
any intention that was 
not brave and good." 

There was some- 
thing so naive and 
beautiful in this ac- 
tion of Esther's, that 
it conquered every low 
or petty suggestion 
even in the common- 
est minds. 

Colt cast a glance of 
triumph, and declined 
to re-examine. He al- 
ways let well alone. 
The Judge, however, 
evinced a desire to 
trace the fourteen 
thousand pounds from 
Calcutta; but Julia 
could not help him: 
that mysterious sum 
had been announced 
by letter as about to 
sail: and then no more 
was heard about it till 
Alfred accused his fa- 
ther of having it. All 
endeavours to fill this 
hiatus failed. How- 
ever Julia, observing 
that in courts material 
objects afTect the mind 
most, had provided 
herself with all the 
pieces de convictiou 
she could find, and she 
produced her father's 
empty pocketbook. and 
said, .when he was 
brought home sense- 
less, this was In his 

••Hand it up to me,'.* 
said the Judge. He ex- 
amined it. and said it 
had been in the water. 

•'Captain Dodd was 
wrecked off the French 
coast," suggested Mr. 

•'My learned friend 
had better go into the 
witness-box. if he 
means to give evi- 
dence." said Mr. Colt. 

"You are very much 
afraid of a very little 
truth," retorted Saun- 

The Judge stopped 
this sham rencontre, 
by asking the witness 
whether her father 
had been wrecked. 
She said. "Yes." 

••And that is how 
the money was lost," 
persisted Saunders. 

"Possibly." said the 

•Tm darned if it 
was," said Joshua 
Fullalove. composedly. 

Instantly, all heads 
were turned in amaze- 
ment at this audacious 
interruption to the so- 
porific decorum of an 
English court. The 
transatlantic citizen 
received this battery 
of eyes with complete 

Fertile situations are the true cream of fic- 
tion; these once supplied, any professional 
writer can find words. 

Now, the fertile situation in Felix Half was 
supplied by Charles Reade. The true literary 
patent is in him. His is the witness with the 
clear, mellow voice who gives her evidence as 
if before God — and that witness a young lady 
who loves the man for whom she gives evi- 
dence, he being present To be sure, George 
Eliot's witness shows a disposition to argue 



the case; but that is no improvement on the 

We will now call attention to another in- 
stance of George Eliot's imitation of Charles 

In his little story, Clouds and Sunshine, 
Charles Reade uses this expression — ^"the thun- 
der of the horses' feet drawing the waggon 
into the barn." 

His unlucky imitator pounces on his "thun- 
der" and his "waggon," and deals with them 
thus: "The thunder of the" waggon coming 
up the hill." Now the iron shoes of a team 
going over the wooden floor of a bam do come 
the nearest to thunder of anything we ever 
heard : but a waggon coming up a hill does not 
thunder: the most prominent sound is the 
creaking of the slow wheels. This, then, is 
unintelligent imitation on a smaller scale. 

In i860 Mr. Reade produced a mediaeval 
novel with an idea-ed title. The Cloister and 
the Hearth. 

His faithful imitator soon followed suit 
with a mediaeval novel, whose title was un- 
idea-'ed — Romola. 

Here the two writers met on an arena that 
tests the highest quality they both pretend to^ 

What is the result? In The Cloister afid 
the Hearth you have the Middle Ages, long 
and broad. The story begins in Holland, and 
the quaint Dutch figures live; it goes through 
Germany, and Germany lives; it picks up a 
French arbalestrier, and the mediaeval French 
soldier is alive again. It goes to Rome, and 
the Roman men and women live again. 

Compare with this the narrow canvas of 
Romola, and the faint colours. The petty 
politics of mediaeval Florence made to sit up 
in the grave, but not to come out of it. The 
gossip of modern Florence turned on to me- 
diaeval subjects and called mediaeval gossip. 
Romola herself is a high-minded, delicate- 
minded, sober-minded lady of the nineteenth 
century, and no other. She has a gentle but 
tame and non-mediaeval affection for a soft 
egotist who belongs to that or any age you 
like. One great historical figure, Savonarola, 
is taken, and turned into a woman by a female 
writer: a sure sign imagination is wanting, 
.There is a dearth of powerful incidents, though 
the time was full of them, as The Cloister and 
the Hearth is full of them. There you have 
the broad features of that marvelous age, so 
full of grand anomalies ; the fine arts and the 
spirit that fed them— the feasts— the shows— 
the domestic life— the law9-4he customs— the 

religion— the roads and their perils— the wild 
beasts disputing the civilised continent with 
man, man uppermost by day, the beasts by 
night — ^the hostelries — the robbers — the strange 
vows — the convents — shipwrecks, sieges, com- 
bats, escapes — a robbers' slaughter-house burnt, 
and the fire lighting up trees clad with snow. 
And through all this a deep current of true 
love — ^passionate, yet pure — ending in a me- 
diaeval poem: the battle of ascetic religion 
against our duty to our neighbour, which was 
the great battle of the time that shook re- 
ligious souls. But perhaps we shall be told 
this comparison is beside the mark; that a 
dearth of incidents is better than a surfeit, and 
that it is in the higher art of drawing char- 
acters George Eliot stands supreme, and 
Charles Reade fills an insignificant place. We 
will abide by that test in this comparison. 

What genuine mediaeval characters, to be 
compared with those of Walter Scott, for in- 
stance, live in the memory after reading the 
two works we are comparing? 

The Cloister and the Hearth is a gallery of 
such portraits, painted in full colours to the 
life. Romola is a portfolio of delicate studies. 
Romola leaves on the memory — i, a young 
lady of the nineteenth century, the exact op- 
posite of a mediaeval woman ; 2, the soft egotist, 
an excellent type ; 3, an innocent little girl ; 4, 
Savonarola emasculated. The other charac- 
ters talk nineteen to the dozen, but they are 
little more than voluble shadows. 

The Cloister and the Hearth fixes on the 
mind — i, the true lover, hermit and priest, 
Gerard ; 2, the true lover, mediaeval and north- 
ern, Margaret of Sevenbergen ; 3, Dame Cath- 
erine, economist, gossip, and mother; 4, the 
dwarf with his big voice ; 5, the angelic cripple, 
little Kate; 6, the Burgomaster; 7, the Bur- 
gundian soldier, a character hewn out of me- 
diaeval rock; 8, the gaunt Dominican, hard, 
but holy; 9, the patrician monk, in love with 
heathenism, but safe from fiery faggots be- 
cause he believed in the Pope ; 10, the patrician 
Pope, in love with Plutarch, and sated with 
controversy; 11, the Princess Gaelia, a true 
mediaeval ; 12, the bravo's wife, a link between 
ancient and mediaeval Rome. 

Philip of Burgundy does but cross the scene; 
yet he leaves his mark. Margaret Van Esrck 
is but flung upon the broad canvas; yet that 
single figure so drawn has suggested three 
volumes to another writer. 

You can find a thousand Romolas in Lon- 
don, because she is drawn from observationt 
and is quite out of place in a medlseval tale. 



But you cannot find the characters of The 
Cloister and the Hearth, because they are 

When The Cloister and the Hearth was first 
published, the Saturday Review, staggered by 
the contents of the book, yet bound by the 
sacred tie of habit to say something against 
it, summed it up as inferior on the whole to 
Walter Scott. But nobody has ever compared 
Romola to Walter Scott. Adulation, how- 
ever fulsome, has evaded this comparison, be- 
cause it would have provoked derision; and 
no reviewer, until this article was written, ever 
had the courage to compare Romola with The 
Cloister and the Hearth. Yet any one, who 
has not made that comparison honestly and 
fairly, knows little of Charles Reade, and can- 
not possibly assign him his true place amongst 
living writers of fiction. 

Our space will not allow us to criticise at 
length the works of Charles Reade on the pres- 
ent occasion. His dramas we must pass by 
altogether; and of his novels, we can only 
make a few remarks concerning the two that 
are connected with Once a Week. 

Foul Play began to appear weekly in this 
magazine in January, 1868. It is a novel of 
immense power, of the greatest originality, and 
is one of his works that shows best the boundr 
less resource of the writer. This feature must 
strike every reader of Charles Reade's novels ; 
his resource is unlimited; his incidents, novel 
and striking, yet always possible and natural, 
follow one another with startling rapidity. 
Foul Play showed off to perfection his in- 
genuity. The plot is intricate: the characters 
— several of them quite new in fiction — are real 
men and women, living and acting in his pages 
as men and women live and act and speak in 
real life, and in few novels but his own. It 
is a story of what is called the sensational 
type: yet so great is the power of art: so 
mighty the skill of the artist : that all the in- 
cidents seem natural and consequent. Foul 
Play leaves the stories of Mr. Collins and 
every other sensational novel writer far be- 
hind. It is a work of genius. The effect of 
the book is perfectly marvelous. Judge of this 
from its recent influence upon an ill-condi- 
tioned mind. 

We quote the Times, November 29: A case 
tried last November, at Boston, U.S., before 
Judge Lowell. The ship was abandoned at 
sea In June, 1871, while on a voyage to Hong 
Kong ; and the crew, after spendiuRr three days 
and nights in their boats, arrived safely at 
Fayal. The master was charged by the crew 
wiUi scuttling the ship by boring holes in her. 

It appeared that the account they gave, in 
many of its details, followed the story in 
Charles Readers Foul Play; and that Bruce, 
the sailmaker, a few weeks before he sailed, 
had read the novel in Chelsea Hospital. 

The judge, after a three days' trial, observed, 
in his summing-up — ^"The witness Bruce, who 
had been reading a novel of great power, goes 
to sea, and finds all the prominent details of 
the plot of that story worked out in fact by 
the master and his accomplices. The great 
improbability of this happening is pointed out ; 
and he comes and says the master is in the 
habit of reading 'Foul Play' during the voyage, 
and that he often saw the book lying about on 
the poop. This conduct on the part of the 
master would be equivalent to leaving a 
printed confession in sight of his crew." 

The highest compliment to fiction has been 
paid. It has been imitated in fact. It is a 
book about sailor-life, and is so true to that 
life, that a sailor, too base or too ignorant to 
comprehend its moral teaching, chooses to copy 
from it the details of crime only a sailor can 

Of The Cloister and the Hearth it is impos- 
sible to speak too well. The author's perfect 
knowledge of mediaeval life, just before the 
time of Erasmus, is wonderful. The plot is 
full of incident of the newest and most strik- 
ing, yet most probable and natural sort: the 
characters live, and seem to us real persons we 
know well: the France, Italy, Holland, and 
Germany of the time of Erasmus are faith- 
fully reproduced. The interest never flags: 
there is always something to command atten- 
tion and excite curiosity. The Cloister and the 
Hearth is one of the most scholarlike and 
learned, as well as one of the most artistic and 
beautiful, works of fiction in any language. 
This splendid production can only be compared 
with the best books of one author — ^Walter 
Scott. And in all things it is as good as 
Kenilworth and Ivanhoe: in some points it is 
better. Although we place these two books 
first in their respective classes — Foul Play in 
the class of novels called sensational, and 
The Cloister and the Hearth in that of the 
purely imaginative — ^yet Charles Reade's books, 
taken throughout, are of more even merit 
than those of almost any other novelist They 
are written in English as pure, as simple, and 
as truly Saxon as any this century has pro- 
duced: in a literary style— nervous, vigorous, 
and masculine— with which the most captious 
and partisan critic cannot find any fault 

Read him : resign yourself to the magic spell 



of his genius: and be lifted above the cares 
of everyday life into the regions of imagina- 
tion, peopled by his real creations. You may 
be trusted then to draw your own conclusions 
as to the merit of his books. 

By the million readers of the time to come, 
Reade, Dickens, and Thackeray will be handed 
down to fame together in every English-speak- 
ing country. 

To the scholar and the man of culture, The 
Cloister and the Hearth may possibly be dearer 
than the humorous and wonderful creations 
of Dickens's fertile genius, or the life-like char- 
acters and satirical digressions of Thackeray. 

The reason why it has seemed worth 
while to rescue this paper from the 
oblivion of the back-number and to re- 
print it here in full is that it was written 
by Charles Reade himself in his own 

hand. It is a chapter of autobiography ; 
it is an essay in self-criticism. It ought 
to be included in any complete edition of 
Reade's works, — just as "Victor Hugo 
raconte par un temoin de sa vie" is now 
reprinted with the rest of his writings. 
But there is this difference: the French 
poet dictated his own account of his 
career to his wife, whereas the British 
story-teller wrote his own eulogy with 
his own pen. 

It may be of interest also to record that 
the manuscript of this article was pre- 
served by Rice and by him given to 
Besant. Probably it is still in existence 
with the other manuscripts of one kind 
or another collected during Sir Walter 
Besant's long and laborious career as a 
man of letters. M. 


By* cTVlary Farley* Sanborn 


PuLLEN, Sunday, June 27th. 

It is seventeen hours since we parted 
in the Grand Union Station. Did I push 
you off the car step, Tony, or did you 
swing off yourself ? At any rate the train 
was going at a pretty good speed, and I 
knew you mustn't get carried on. After 
I had seen the last of you I walked 
through the car and sat down with my 
back to the other passengers. Under- 
ground, and out again. What abnormal- 
ly clean people those Harlemites are! — 
or else they are very much otherwise 
that they need to wash every day in the 
week. Flying clothes between every two 
rows of houses — every imaginable colour, 
like the flags of all nations. I sat and 
marvelled at the quantity, and at the 
same time I wondered — all the wav back 
to Pullen I wondered, and after a night's 

sleep I am wondering still — how for any 
reason on earth I could leave you who 
are all the world to me, at the behest of 
these people, mere relatives, to whom I 
am only bound by the accidental ties of 

Of course there is another point of 

view — ^theirs. It was inevitable that they 
should send for me, and if you had 
known what my grandmother was until 
yesterday and never will be any more, 
and could behold what she is now, you 
would understand better than I can pos- 
sibly tell you, what an apalling thing this 
seizure is to us all. 

It seems impossible when I stand by 
the bed where she lies prostrate, a big- 
boned, strong-framed woman with one 
side of her body stricken helpless, and 
her power of articulation wholly gone. 
The only sign of life about her is her left 
eye which fastens itself upon us and fol- 
lows us about with an imploring look 
that is positively tragic. Wistfulness 
was never a characteristic expression of 
my Grandmother Pullen's face. 

And if they had no choice but to send 
for me, it is equally true that I had none 
but to come. One obeys a summons by 
wire as if it were a voice from heaven. 
To be sure I lost a train while I was 
hunting you up to say good-bye. That 
made me four hours later than I should 
have been at Pullen, a matter of silent but 
quite evident reproach — 1 won't enlarge 
upon that now. however. T could not, 



and would not, leave New York without 
seeing you, whatever might be the conse- 
quences. The reproach, I will explain, 
did not emanate from my grandmother, 
who, I judge, has little idea of the pas- 
sage of time in her poor brain. When I 
get back to you Fm going to tell you lots 
of things that we have never had the 
time for talking over. Not that they are 
important. Nothing is of importance ex- 
cept the one great Fact of our love. 

I wired you the very moment I stepped 
out of the train. I said to the Person 
who had come to meet me, "How is my 
grandmother ?" 

The answer was, "There has been no 
change since four o'clock" (a delicate 
allusion, Tony, to the hour when I should 
have arrived). 

"Is the carriage here?" I asked. "I 
will be ready in just a minute. I am go- 
ing to send one or two messages, if you 
don't mind waiting.'* 

Now the Person does mind waiting, al- 
ways minds it, with the cold, still abhor- 
rence of one whose life and affairs have 
become adjusted to a system. But I 
smiled pleasantly when I said it, as if I 
were perfectly unconscious of the Per- 
son's disapproval. Tony, dear, do you 
know — ^but of course you don't, you are 
so very direct in your own methods — that 
you can take all power of resistance out 
of people that way? By assuming, I 
mean, such an appearance of artless un- 
consciousness that no one can accuse you 
of meaning to give offense. Now I'm 
well aware that you don't approve any 
sort of circumlocution, but please don't 
alter the good opinion of me that I know 
you held seventeen hours ago, because 
when I see you I am going to explain that 
I am not deceitful, only diplomatic. Even 
you must admit that there are occasions 
when a little tact saves a great deal of 
discomfort. (Of course, I should never 
have any use for it with you.) 

The telegraph operator at the station is 
a young man who used to play jackstones 
and "class ball" with me when I was in 
short skirts. I took a blank and wrote: 
"Mr. Antony Seymour, Gaser Office, 
Broadway," feeling delightfully reckless 
with Jarvis on tiptoe (mentally) and the 
Person walking up and down the wait- 
ing-room with measured steps and an 
expression of offended authority. It was 
out of pure mischief and bravado that I 

added, "Take good care of yourself," af- 
ter I had announced my safe arrival. 
Though I have a perfect right to do any- 
thing I choose, as far as any one except 
you has a voice in the matter. 

Still, dearie, I think you may address 
my letters to General Delivery, South 
Pullen, while I am here. It will be only 
for a short time, and the distance is not 
great, less than two miles. I can walk 
or drive over there every day. Our 
morning mail is brought early, and might 
lie for an hour on the hall table for all 
the household to see before I get down- 
stairs. You are such a great and mo- 
mentous Fact, that I don't want you to 
be suspected just at present. 

Oh, dear! there are so many things I 
want to tell you ! What shall I say first ? 
There is nothing of any vital, interest to 
us except our love, and yet, now that I 
am away from you with plenty of time to 
write, and no other form of intercourse 
possible for the immediate present, I sui>- 
pose I ought to improve the opportunity 
to tell you what my relations have been to 
some of these estimable Pullenites. But 
not to-day. Oh, Tony, Tony, this was to 
have been our day, and here I am, back 
in Pullen. Back — in Pullen, and ohl 
"the diflFerence to me !" It's not the same 
village I left three months ago, — 

"What's this dull town to me, 
Tony's not here." 

You don't know, because I have never 
stopped being happy long enough to tell 
you, in what light I had grown to regard 
this place. Not as a permanent home, 
certainly, for the peculiar limitations of 
a small manufacturing town, and one 
named for my own great-grandfather at 
that, would either extinguish my perfon- 
ality altogether, or drive me mad. But 
it does represent all that has ever seemed 
stable in my life, I drifted about so as 
long as my father lived. I don't care 
much for stable things, either; they are 
apt to become stupid and monotonous, 
but one doesn't always have the courage 
of one's dislikes. I might — it's a horrible 
thought, but I might have been forced to 
"settle down" here. I am a queer mix- 
ture—did you know it?— of rebellious- 
ness and submissiveness, of impudence 
and compliance. I think I will soar in 
the air out of everybody's reach, and in- 
stead I only flutter along the ground. 



touching it with my toes every now and 
then, to make sure it is really under me. 
That, I suspect, is a woman's way of 
flying. I wouldn't make the admission to 
anytwdy but you. Never to Myles. 
Myles, I may as well explain just here, 
is Grandmother Pullen's nephew-in-law, 
in other words, the bereft husband of my 
cousin Nell, who died twelve years ago 
when she had been married just one year. 
Poor Nellie 1 She never had a bit of self- 
assertion and I can't help thinking it is 
just as well she went when she did. 
Myles — but let us drop him for the pres- 
ent. Some day, when I feel as cut-and- 
dried as a census report, I'll tell you more 
about him. 

I find myself a little restless, dear. It 
is a beautiful day, and if it had not been 
for this terrible thing you and I would 
have been at this very hour gliding along 
the Hudson, with a hammock rolled up 
and strapped to our lunch-basket, and a 
single umbrella sheltering us from the 
sun; with Omar in one of your coat 
pockets, and The Seven Seas in the other 
— we shouldn't have read a word in either 
of them, dear ! And now, what are you 
doing without me? What are you think- 
ing of? A day in your life in which I 
have no share, the first since we came 
together. I hope you are not lonely, but 
you must be just a little, I think. After 
all do I wish you to be quite contented ? 
My own feelings I can't analyse. It was 
very sudden, and though I have been used 
to unexpected things all my life, starting 
off sometimes at a two hours' notice with 
my father for a six months' trip, I had no 
one to leave behind in those days, for my 
father, while he lived, was my world, 
just as you are now. 

But I do know that I am not unhappy. 
I have never been unhappy in my life, and 
I can't begin yet. Besides, there is a cer- 
tain fascination in withdrawing a little 
from you and thinking over by myself all 
that the last three months have held. 
You remember the lines we were reading 
one night when Aunt Letitia was out and 
It rained against the window, and we 
stayed cosily in the library : — 

"break the rosary in a pearly rain, 
And gather what we let fall." 

That is what I shall do while I am 
here — go back and pick up the dajrs one 
bv one, since first I met you, and string 

them over again in my memory. I 
couldn't do that if I were with you, be- 
cause you would keep doing new things 
to distract me. 

I sat a long time by my window last 
night after I had come up to my room. 
The electric lights shone through the 
trees, and the breeze was saying queer, 
mysterious things to the hemlocks on the 
lawn. After the insistent noises of a big 
city this place is oppressively quiet, and 
an ominous hush pervades the house it- 
self. I cannot tell you, Tony, what a 
curious chill came over me as I crossed 
the threshold of my grandmother's room 
last night. It was as if I had stepped all 
at once into the current of an icy draught. 
It was an impression, of course, but I 
cannot help wondering if it meant any- 
thing, and what? There is a feeling of 
suspension in the air as if the old house 
was holding its breath and waiting for 
something to happen. This may be only 
a morbid fancy on my part, called into 
play by the near presence of death. Yet the 
chill was very real, and I shiver now to 
recall it. I have never been subject to 
such notions, and they are not the pleas- 
antest of companions at the dead of night 
in a silent house. It may all be laid to 
"nervousness," I suppose, and I tried to 
overcome it with thoughts of you. As I 
sent my own soul out to meet yours, it 
seemed indeed, that you drew very near. 
I had seen you only a few hours before — 
your dear, straightforward, clear blue 
eyes, your square shoulders and strong, 
supple hands, and the parting of your 
thick, dark crisp hair. I said as we 
walked out to the train. "It's only for a 
little while, Tony, isn't it?" and you an- 
swered confidently, "That's all. Madge. 
Poor old lady! I hope she will live till 
you get there." 

She IS alive this morning, and appar- 
ently no weaker than she was last night. 
The doctors say another shock may occur 
at any time, and the second would surely 

be fatal. If she could onlv speak the 
thing would not be so awful. She can- 
not even hold a pencil, for it is her rigfht 
side that is stricken, and no one who has 
ever known my Grandmother Pullen 
could conceive of anything so irreeular 
as her trying to write with her left hand. 
Still, if she could communicate with us in 
any way, she might demand some unrea- 
sonable concession or other, as d3ang peo- 



pie so often do. There are two nurses in 
the house, and they anticipate every pos- 
sible want of hers. They seem to me 
wonderfully clever about reading what 
little expression she is able to put into 
her strange, drawn features. That in- 
telligence is, of course, the result of 
training. They told me she looked pleased 
last night when she was informed that I 
had arrived. That idea must have been 
altogether due to their imagination, for I 
never saw my Grandmother PuUen look 
pleased at anything; but really, when I 
knelt down by the bedside and laid my 
hand on hers (I couldn't kiss her, Tony) 
it almost seemed that she was imploring 
something of me. That one eye pierced 
me through ; it was enough to make the 
least sensitive person tremble. If she 
could have spoken, what would she have 
said? Something, perhaps, that I could 
not have borne. She looked toward the 
door, and her fingers closed over my wrist 
with a suggestion of her old overbear- 
ing purpose and determination. If I was 
ever afraid of anybody, it was of Grand- 
mother Pullen. She has made me do 
things that no one else could ever have 
persuaded me to, simply by force of her 
tremendous, dominating will. 

And she stared at that doorway till I 
thought I should scream aloud, all the 
while making a queer inarticulate noise 
in her throat. I took my hand from hers, 
quaking with the absurd fear that she 
would suddenly spring at me, and got 
slowly upon my feet. Then I began to 
feel myself growing weak and faint, and 
one of the nurses, a pretty, sleek creature 
with fair hair and the demurest grey eyes, 
came forward and led me out of the 
room. Bonnie — my other grandmother, 
on my mother's side — took me downstairs 
and made me some tea in her own little 
brass teakettle. It sounded so cheerful 
singing over the spirit lamp, that I partly 
forgot the gruesome scene in the room 
above. Bonnie is a dear, and we are very 
good friends. I will tell you more about 
her when I come back to you. She is a 
vain little person and would never allow 
me to call her grandma because it made 
her feel old, and so my mother taught me 
to call her Bonnie, which is a diminutive 
of her surname — Boniface. It suits her 
too, for she is a pretty, pink-checked old 
lady, not so very old either, only sixty- 

I have been in the sickroom again this 
morning. I shrank from it, but Myles 
seemed to think I ought to go, and though 
I do not make a business of obeying 
Myles, it is easiest sometimes to do the 
thing that is expected of you. This time, 
my grandmother gazed at the ceiling, and 
did not appear to notice me. She is hor- 
rible to look at, one side of her face 
drooping and distorted. I couldn't help 
hoping as I stood there, that I should not 
die such an object. Fancy being old, 
dear, and not in the least attractive, hav- 
ing lost every one you had ever cared for 
except a granddaughter who couldn't love 
you, and then to have the strength that 
had been your greatest pride turned all 
at once into a terrible helplessness. Think 
of it ! Tony, will you love me when I am 
old ? As you do now, only more, because 
the associations of years are crowded into 
the love? There is nothing on earth I 
care for but love, and no love on earth 
but yours. Other people may be fond of 
me, they must, for your sake, but your 
love has come to be the one thing, and 
all else shrank into nothingness when 
you came to me and I knew that we 
cared. Grandma Pullen's money, which 
it is certain I am to have — for myself I 
hardly care whether it comes my way or 
not. For your sake I do want it, so that 
you may be free to leave your enforced 
duties and follow your blessed convic- 
tions, writing books that shall enlighten 
and redeem so many people. 

What will you think of this letter? 
I'm afraid it will seem to you flippant. I 
didn't mean it so, as in your heart, you 
surely understand. Do you think of me, 
Tony, every minute ? To-morrow I shall 
have a letter from you. After that, send 
to South Pullen, remember ; it is the best 
arrangement for the little time I am to be 
here. I am your own 


June 28th. Before breakfast. 

It is Monday again, for which I am 
heartily glad. Daylight, especially the 
light of a weekday, is the best of mental 
healers. Yesterday was so long, and the 
morbid fancies wouldn't be driven out. I 
spent the afternoon overhauling some 
trunks and drawers — ^the piano mustn't 
be touched, and I was not in the mood for 
driving. In the evening, well, if you 
must have it, Tony, in the evening T was 



lonely, for the first time in my life, I 
think. Love works all sorts of psycho- 
logical changes, and if I am happy with 
you, I must miss you a little bit when I'm 
away, must I not ? Yet, I was not actual- 
ly sad, for I shall see you again very 
soon, and meanwhile I have a great store 
of memories to live upon. Bonnie won't 
allow me to stay in my room and think 
about you; she craves my society, and 
last night she sat and looked at me with 
her big eyes till I was forced to talk for 
the sake of keeping her in spirits. I have 
a character to preserve with Bonnie ; she 
believes, and tells everybody, that I am 
the most amusing person she ever saw, 
quite unconscious of the fact that in this 
estimate, she is confessing her own sadly 
limited experience. 

So I roused myself and began a de- 
scription of Aunt Letitia's establishment 
— the carpets and curtains, the furniture 
and draperies, the different sets of china 
and silver for special occasions, auntie's 
costumes and jewels, and the entire con- 
ventional, philistine outfit. Dear vain, 
silly little Bonnie ! She has always stood 
in awe of the material display one can 
make with money. I avoided, painfully 
enough, all mention of you. I could not 
tell her anything without telling all, and 
she would not have understood. She 
would have asked first whether you were 
handsome, and second, what your income 
was. Besides, she would repeat the whole 
story, in strictest confidence, to the very 
next person who called. Bonnie is not 
fond of Myles. She complains that he is 
not courtly, which means that he does 
not pay a sufficient amount of attention to 
her, but she has a certain respect for his 
money and position. Your work and 
ambitions, our hopes and plans, would be 
far too unworldly for her material little 
mind to grasp. Still, I should dash my- 
self boldly against her incapacity if I 
felt that the time had come for disclosure. 
The dear old g^rl has a vein of dead-rose 
sentiment in her, and you could trust me 
to paint you in glowing colours, my 


Myles came in and brought the mail — 
I was sure it would happen so. There 
was so little of it that my two letters were 
conspicuous, and of course yours had 
managed to get on top. I was so eager 
and nervous that I fairly snatched tiiem 

from his hand, and then, to offset the im- 
pression I feared I had produced, I thrust 
them into my pocket with an air of non- 
chalance that would not have deceived a 
day-old gosling. Myles, however, pre- 
served the stable calm of a person who is 
incapable of realising that one could have 
anything to conceal from him. I am par- 
ticularly desirous of doing him justice, 
and so I must say just here that with all 
his air of obvious rectitude and his man- 
ner of intimating with his eyelids that if 
you differ with him you are hopelessly 
wrong, he is invariably a gentleman. You 
see, dearie, I am giving this amount of 
prominence to him because though not an 
actual member of the household, he still 
figures very importantly in it. He repre- 
sents my Grandmother Pullen's ideal of 
manly virtue and business ability. He 
manages all her affairs ; her approval of 
him seems to be complete. That is as 
near as she has ever come to loving, I be- 
lieve. Poor old lady! A life without 
love ! Could it be called living ? 

How curious to think that life could 
mean anything but love, especially to a 
woman! Grandfather PuUen's portrait 
hangs in the parlour, on the north wall, 
where the big chimney casts a deep 
shadow on it. It is one of those portraits 
in which the eyes follow you about the 
room. As a child, I always avoided look- 
ing at him past that chimney ; it used to 
seem as if he were peering out of his cor- 
ner to see if he could lure me in. I won- 
dered even then if she loved him, as my 
father and mother loved each other — in a 
happy, playful sort of way, keeping anni- 
versaries of everything that ever hap- 
pened after he first began to "pay her at- 
tention," when she was eighteen and he 
twenty-one. With my present enlighten- 
ment, I know that nobody could have 
loved Grandfather PuIIen, least of all, 
Mrs. G. P. Tight lips, shrewd, narrow 
eyes, a forehead with fine, latitudinal 
creases, and a pompous air of holding 

himself aloof from the common herd. An 
aristocratic monev-getter. I can stand 
under the portrait and imitate him till 
Bonnie becomes hysterical. What will 
you think of such levity, you dear, seri- 
ous-minded Tonv, intent upon your so- 
cialistic theories? But you see we are 
terribly pent-up. Not allowed to make a 
sound in the house, and debarred from 
going abroad because it would look in- 



considerate and lacking in respect. And 
Bonnie's sixty-four years are disposed 
to sit very lightly on her sloping little 
shoulders. Grandmother Pullen's mar- 
riage was, as nearly as I can ascertain, 
one of those dismal, deliberately planned 
affairs that go to make one a moral 
anarchist. If public opinion sanctions 
such a union, isn't its approval an insult 
to the real thing? Bonnie tells me little 
anecdotes of them. She says Grand- 
mother Pullen always called her husband 
**Mr. Pullen," so far as any one ever 
knew, at all time and seasons. Query: 
In the privacy of their own apartments? 
Fancy it! "Mr. Pullen, will you please 
pick this knot out of my nightcap 
strings?" Or, "I believe the baby has 
the colic, Mr. Pullen. Won't you hand 
me the anise bottle ?" 

How would it have seemed to you if I 
had said "Good night, Mr. Seymour,'' 
that evening we walked home from the 
Casino across the park ? — do you remem- 
ber? Please don't think that I mean to 
ridicule this poor stricken old woman; 
it's only that my riotous imagination will 
run loose. Instinctively, I seem to be ap- 
plying the one test to everybody nowa- 
days; I keep wondering if they have 
loved, could love or will love. There is 
Maidie, Myles's little girl. She is twelve 
years old ; in another twelve years will 
she stand up and stretch out her arms 
and feel that she is growing tall with the 
love that fills her heart and beats into her 
finger tips ? I doubt it. At Maidie's age 
I was reading The Idylls of the King, 
which I am sure her father would pro- 
hibit as not being suitable to her years. 
If she is lucky enough to get hold of them 
by the time she is sixteen, she will be just 
so far behind me even if in that time Na- 
ture has succeeded in producing another 
man who knows how to be loved as I love 
vou. It is a creat thine to know how to 
be loved, Tony, dear. I believe very few 
men do, thoueh as a matter of fact. I 
know verv little about it. Mv father 
made it his business to ward off all ap- 
proaches of that kind, assuring me that 
when the inevitable experience came, it 
could by no means be kept away. How 
right he was, and how inevitable you 
were, my Tonv ! 

There again, is Bonnie. At sixty-four 
she has still a girlish charm, and though 
her colouring has faded, it is in a delicate, 

refined way, like old tapestry. But Bon- 
nie's soul never soared far above the 
marabout feathers, and chine silks, and 
thread lace shawls of her more prosper- 
ous seasons. She is fond of me because 
in me she lives over again her much re- 
gretted youth, and because I keep her 
somewhat in touch with the outside world 
that she has seen very little of since her 
husband died and she came here to live in 
semi-dependence on Grandmother Pullen. 

Myles? Well, Myles is a well-regu- 
lated piece of mechanism, with all the 
latest adjustments for perfect operation 
according to certain requirements, but 
the divine fire is absent. As for the girls 
I know, they are all ready to dress their 
ideal up in the shape of the first marriage- 
able man they meet, and very few of 
them have the discernment to see that the 
ideal hangs loose on the man. Blessed, 
wonderful Tony ! You never could get 
on the ideal's clothes at all ; you outgrew 
them long ago. And yet the creature did 
somehow bear a certain likeness to you, 
as if he had in the first conception been 
a dream image of yourself — and who 
knows but that he was ? 

We have been two days separated. I 
do not understand how it is, but you do 
not seem far away. I think and think of 
you, and it is almost as if I were looking 
into your eyes. In two or three weeks at 
the most, I believe, I shall be back in New 
York. No matter about the weather. 
Bonnie will be glad to go with me, and 
we will take rooms somewhere near the 
Park. After this separation is over, we 
must never have another. Why should 
we? I laugh to myself, thinking of all 
your dear foolish talk about not taking 
me until you can provide the regulation 
house all furnished, to put me in. I am 
perfectly sure that I do not desire a per- 
manent home, at least for the oresent, and 
still more convinced that you do not. Be- 
sides — and this is not so cold-blooded as 
it sounds — in a very short time I shall 
have all my grandmother's money. It 
will not make us rich as riches go, but we 
shall be independent of salaries, and you 
will be free to follow your bent, without 
regard to the demands of editors. You 
shall study socialistic tendencies and con- 
ditions to your heart's content; we will 
travel, see with each other's eyes, think 
with each other's brain. Then you shall 
write the Great Book. I will help you — 



I can, dear. My father used to say that 
every man's mind needed a woman's to 
supplement it, to go into the little side 
paths and corners that the masculine in- 
tellect was too clumsy to penetrate. 

Since writing that last line I have been 

reading over your letter for the th 

time — never mind the exact figure. Bless 
the postal service! How kindly it takes 
care of us, and keeps our secret! You 
need not have apologised for what you 
call your brevity. Men, I believe, are not 
natural letter-writers. Only I hope you 
will have patience with my long, feminine 
outpourings. I have nothing to do but 
think and write, and it is such a comfort 
to talk myself out to you. You under- 
stand all I say just as I say it. I can see 
your eyes as I write, steady, intent, 
searching, sympathetic, drawing the best 
that is in me up to the surface. If you 
called me to account — ^blamed, or cor- 
rected, or questioned, well, you wouldn't 
be you in that case. I am sure advice 
has never been of much use to me. I 
know, of myself, where I am weak or 
wrong, and to be loved for the good there 
is in me seems to be my best incentive to 
be better. I could never live my life ac- 
cording to somebody else's plan any more 
than a strawberry could change itself 
into a plum. If you will simply love me, 
Tony, I shall in time find out all my own 
faults, and overcome them for your sake. 
You shall be my sun. Only shine on me 
and I will grow. Make me a good straw- 
berry that way. 

Maidie is waiting for me ; we are go- 
ing out together for a romp in the field, 
quite away from the house so no one will 
be scandalised. Back of our place there 
is an orchard, then some meadow land 
bordered on one side by woods. Still 
farther on is the river, very smooth and 
slow and peaceful till it gets to the lower 
end of the village where it rouses itself 
out of its deplorable laziness, and makes 
an effort to run Mr. Myles Havenden's 
mills — Myles expects it. The mills were 
formerly my grandfather's; they have 
now passed partly into Myles's posses- 
sion, and wholly into his management. 
But, Tony, I shall never stop writing if I 
don't stop. Maidie sits by the window. 
She is a nice child, tall for her years and 
erect, with straight, slim legs and very 

bright eyes imdcr her hat-brim. She has 
been waiting sweetly and sedatdy, but 
I know how quickly she will jump to her 
feet when I say I am ready. 

I don't live without you, dear. I 
breathe just to keep the Hfe in me till I 
can come back to you, which I shall do 
soon, very soon. 

Friday, July 2d. 

Oh, dear, I wonder if you are reading 
my letter of Wednesday and thinking it 
was a little disagreeable and out-of-sorts. 
When I wrote it was raining so hard I 
couldn't make any sort of excuse for 
leaving the house, and I was desperate to 
hear from jrou. Myles, in a dripping 
mackintosh, came with the mail — noth- 
ing from you, of course, as I had asked 
you to send to South Pullen, but just for 
a minute I wished that you had disobeyed 

Later the rain stopped. I declared to 
Bonnie that I must have the air, and. in 
spite of her expostulations I put on my 
golf suit and set out on foot for your 
blessed letter. I read it on the way home, 
sitting on a rock under a big tree that 
dropped tears on it and on me too, poor 
little Madge. Aren't you ashamed for 
calling me to account so soon, when I 
had just been praising you for your noble 
tolerance ? 

I can't imagine what I have said to 
make you feel that there is anything you 
should know that I have not already told 
you. You wish me to describe Myles, 
give his age and exact position in the 
family. Well, have I not already done 
so? If not, he is about thirty-five, well 
set-up, with rather piercing dark eyes, a 
good nose, and a thin mouth under a care- 
fully kept dark mustache. There are de- 
pressions at the corners, which mean that 
speaking generally he disapproves of 
your conduct. His expression is one of 
endurance. Do you see him ? I wish tQ 
heaven I did not. 

As for my grandmother's case, the doc- 
tors have explained it, but you know how 
they delight in technicalities, and I only 
understand that she may have another 
seizure at any moment, which would, in 
all probability, be fatal. We are keeping 
her perfectly quiet, and waiting for the 
end. At present, her existence is noth- 
ing more than a dreadful death in life. I 
can think of nothing worse. To know, to 



think, to feel, to wish, and yet not be able 
to make anybody understand ! 

Bonnie is stricken to abjectness with 
fear, momentarily expecting a like visi- 
tation. She is in the best of health, but 
that does not reassure her, for my Grand- 
mother PuUen had only the day before 
her own calamity been boasting of her 
sound physical condition. Bonnie argues, 
therefore, that an appearance of good 
health is ominous. So she sits miserable 
through breakfast, with only a cup of 
"cambric tea" to moisten her toast and 
eggs ; she is afraid of coffee. I poke ftm 
at her to keep my own spirits up, partly, 
but it is nevertheless a fact that the whole 
atmosphere of the house is suggestive of 

Maidie is my greatest comfort, next to 
your letters. She has attached herself to 
me, preferring my society to that of her 
more youthful friends who are coldly 
jealous in consequence, and pass her in 
the street with distorted noses. The top 
of her head comes just to my chin, we are 
almost evenly matched in a Kundred-yard 
dash, and she adores the Jungle Books. 
Every time I put on a fresh shirt waist 
she falls in love with me all over again. 
There is nothing more reassuring to a 
woman of my age than the admiration of 
a girl of her's — as far as one's vanity 
goes, I mean. 

We go out every day for a walk in the 
fields — it's oftener a run — and yesterday 
we had something that for want of any- 
thing more exciting we agreed to call an 
adventure. We were crossing ♦he field 
towards the river. The first two barriers 
are stone walls, and we have our regular 
places to step over, but the last division 
line is a rail fence, and it is a high one. 
That lets us into the meadow beyond 
which is the river. 

I was not in quite my usual spirits, so 
I pulled out a rail and i^ominiously 
crawled under, a mode of proceeding 
which Maidie at any time would have 
scorned for herself. She is as agile as a 
monkey and very nearly as quick. By the 
time I was on my feet and had restored 
the rail to its place I saw her on the top 
bar of the fence with outstretched arms 
just poised for a jump. I called to her to 
be careful, but I was too late, for down 
she came, her fl3ang petticoats caught the 
top of the post, and she hung suspended. 
The sudden stop took her breath away for 

an instant, but Maidie is not the girl to 
scream. She frowned, . and kidcSl her 
heels against the fence, and we heard the 
sound of breaking stitches, and then we 
both laughed. 

"Let the old thing tear," said Maidie. 

"Climb up backwards, can't you?" I 
I suggested, believing her capable of al- 
most any acrobatic feat. 

She tried to reach behind her for the 
top rail, but she was hanging a little too 

"It will be a funny thing if I can't get 
down," she said. 

She bent her knees and tried to get a 
footing on one of the lower rails, and 
again we heard the gathers giving way. 
She was too high for me to lift her un- 
less I climbed to the top of the fence my- 
self, and I was beginning to think the 
situation more serious than it looked, 
when I saw a rush of color come into 
Maidie's face. She began to tug at her 
skirt, but the thing was made of stout 
linen by a conscientious PuUen dress- 
maker, who knew that Myles was, above 
all things, practical. The rest of the 
stitches held their own, and the fabric 
was too stout to tear. 

Maidie's face grew redder. The entire 
length of her stockings and some very 
crisp Hamburg ruffles were conspicuous- 
ly in view below the invincible petticoats. 
She fluttered her hands at me. 

"Pull me down, Madge, pull me down. 
Tear the botheration skirt. I've got plenty 
more. Papa won't know. There's Law- 
rence Carlew coming, hateful thing! 
What's he doing in this field, anyway? 
Take me, Madge, WON'T you ?" 

I looked, and running towards us like 
a deer, or rather, like a crack half-back 
on a 'Varsity eleven, was a young fellow 
in knickerbockers and a blue shirt. I felt 
deeply for my young charge, but I was 
quite powerless to help her. She was do- 
ing the last thing now, shedding tears of 
fury, with her hat tipped down over her 

Mr. Carlew, when he came up, took 
the matter quite seriously. He raised his 
cap to me before he came to a stop, and 
leaping upon the lower rail of the fence, 
lifted the child carefullv down. She came 
to earth, very angry with fate, and some- 
what less than decently grateful to her 
preserver. It took our united efforts to 
restore her self-respect, and Mr. Carlew 



showed a rare tact in the matter. I 
pinned up the wreck, and then we begged 
Maidie to introduce us, which made her 
laugh till it was foo late to cry any more. 

I have never known this young man, 
though like me, he was born in Pullen. I 
went to boarding-school with his sister 
who is now married and living abroad, 
but Lawrence was a little boy in those 
days — he is only nineteen now — and has 
not spent much more time in Pullen than 
I have. He and his mother have 
travelled a great deal and pass some of 
their winters South, with a tutor, and 
meanwhile he has been growing up, it 
seems. He is big, and very good-looking, 
and in six or eight years from now, I 
should judge, he may have become an 
approximate success as an all-round hu- 
man being. At present, he is simply a 
Harvard freshman. 

As we strolled together toward the 
river and he answered innumerable ques- 
tions about Elinor, I noticed another 
young man walking in the same general 
direction, but keeping close to the belt of 

"Old Norrice," said Mr. Carlew in ex- 
planation. "We were trying to do a lit- 
tle Cicero this morning. It's too fine a 
day for Latin, don't you think. Miss 
Pullen r 

"That depends," I replied, cautiously. 

"Yes, I know what you mean," he said, 
with a conscious laugh, but without the 
least confusion. "I suppose you have 
heard about it. The fellows don't think 
anything of it, you know ; here in Pullen 
they're so simple they look upon it as a 
disgrace. My mother's innocent enough 
to be dreadfully cut up about it. Won't 
go to see anybody if she can help it." 

I begged to know what the deplorable 
state of affairs could be. 

"Oh, you don't know?" he exclaimed. 
I saw that he was distinctly piqued. 
Maidie got hold of my hand and slyly 
pulled it. She had the facts, and her 
opinion of them as well. 

"Well, it's just this— I flunked my 
finals in two courses, and without them I 
haven't enoucrh to take me on with mv 
class. I hadn't done well enouerh through 
the year in Greek and mathematics to 
jump me over the finals. You see I 
played in the freshman eleven. Miss Pul- 
len ; if you read the athletics, perhaps 
you know about the tackle I made on 



Pennsy's five-yard line after I'd chased 
their half-back from the middle of the 
field. You see we held *em there, so I 
saved the touch-down. It really wasn't 
much, you know," with an obvious air of 
it's being a great deal, "but the papers 
lauded me in great shape. They'll put 
me on the training table first thing in the 
fall. So you see, I'm tutoring for make- 
up exams in September." 

'And that's your tutor out there ?" 
'Yes, that's Billy Norrice. Working 
his way through the Law School, regular 
shark at Greek and math, don't you 
know ? Fellows say he didn't do a thing 
but grind when he was in college. Moth- 
er takes him awfully au serieux. They 
have long consultations as to what is 
going to become of me, and I believe she 
asks him privately every night if I had 
my lesson to-day. Billy's a good sort, 
though. But it's a queer vacation, don't 
you think. Miss Pullen?" 

We walked slowly across the field, Mr. 
Carlew doing most of the talking. He is 
interesting as a young animal very much 
alive, and equal, I should think, to almost 
any athletic effort. It appears that he 
refused to be educated in Germany be- 
cause of the absence of football from the 
university curriculums, so his mother 
brought him home, and between the 
preparatory schools and the tutors, he 
has arrived at his present status — a pro- 
bationary sophomore. In the prep 
schools he seems to have distinguished 
himself chiefly by running round ends. 

We drifted nearer to Mr. Norrice, and 
Lawrence (I used to hear his sister talk 
of him so much that his Christian name 
comes more naturally than the other) 
beckoned him up. He came, deliberately 
and without anv apparent enthusiasm, a 
thoughtful looking young man nearly as 
tall as Lawrence, but rather spare in 
build, a little hollow chested, with serious 
grey eves that look as if they might light 
up at times. His best claim to his pupil's 
approval consists, as I have since learned, 
in the fact that during his first year or 
two at CambridjBfe he made a record at 
sprintiner. He carried a Latin lexicon 
under his arm. but T could see a maga- 
zine, one of the reviews, I should think, 
sticking out of his pocket. I studied him 
with some curiosity, wondering what 
satisfaction besides salarv could be de- 
rived from the process of cramming the 



classics into a young barbarian so mani- 
festly created for the purposes of football. 

When one recalled the gloom of the 
house back there across the sunny fields, 
it was a dreadful temptation to stay out 
on the river bank throwing stones and 
twigs into the water, and I am afraid we 
were a serious interruption to the morn- 
ing's work. The tutor said very little, 
therefore I inferred that he had a great 
deal to say. The talk ran chiefly on ath- 
letics, and I am sure the review burned 
in Mr. Norrice's pocket. By and by 
Maidie and 1 came away and left them to 
the mercy of the Roman orator. We re- 
turned bv the road, at my su^estion, and 
with Maidie's consent, given promptly 
and haughtily. The astute child feared 
that Mr. Carlew would insist on going 
back with us as far as the rail fence. 
She burst forth as soon as we were out 
of hearing. She had climbed more fences 
than Lawrence Carlew ever saw in his 
whole life, or ever dreamed of seeing — 
the idea of his having had to come along 
the only time such a disgusting thing had 
ever happened to her I A grown-up man 
that wasn't smart enough to pass an ex- 
amination! She never failed in her life. 

"Why one year," stumbling over her 
words m an engaging little way she has 
when she is a bit excited, "why, one year 
I took — took double promotion, and the 
teacher said — said I might have done 
it again last year only papa wouldn't let 

Oh, Tony, how still and dreary the 
house seemed after the radiant sunlight 
and freedom outside! Bonnie followed 
me into my room. "Oh, Madge, where 
have you been ? I'm so nervous ! The 
doctor said my pulse was a little 'droop- 
ing' — what do you suppose he meant by 
that ? He has a tonic — he says. 
I don't know whether I dare take it. It 
may be some very powerful medicine for 
mv heart, and heaven knows how it will 
aflfect me. Old Dr. Tully used to say I 
was so sensitive he never could give me 
the doses he would give to anybody else. 
Nowadays doctors only experiment on 

you. If he knew that I had an organic 
heart disease he wouldn't tell me; they 
never do." And so forth, 

I said, "Oh, Bonnie, don't be a goose. 
I wish my own heart was as sound as 
yours. Take the tonic, it will amuse you, 
and put the pretty pink colour back into 
your checks. Can't we go to Boston 
some day soon ? It's a whole week since 
I've seen the inside of a shop." She 
brightened directly. 

I am ashamed of having filled up this 
letter with so much that does not concern 
Us at all. I'm only waiting till I can 
come back to you, and meanwhile I 
simply try to fill in the chinks of time 
with anything available. My trunks are 
not wholly unpacked, it was not worth 
while. How strange to be going about 
the house with this new life in my heart 
among the people who have known me 
all these years, and yet have no real 
knowledge of what is within me. I have 
never been credited with deep feeling, I 
believe, I suppose because my father 
taught me to accept things like a phi- 
losopher. He used to say, "Be a man, 
Madge," when I cried over any tittle 
trouble. People remark to me : "Oh, you 
take life easily; your heart will never be 
broken," and that kind of thing. I do 
think you know better than that, Tony, 
and realise that I am above all things, a 
loving woman, capable of sacrificing all 
else for love's sake. But now that I have 
been away from you so long, although I 
know you do understand, I am restless, a 
little. I want to see in your eyes that 
you are not doubtful of me, that you are 
sure I would do what is best for you un- 
der all circumstances. 

I shall be so happy to pet your letter 
to-morrow 1 Tell me everything that 
happens. Aunt Letitia has closed her 
house at last ; a letter came to-day. No 
rrtatter, I can get rooms somewhere, as I 
said, and I should not mind the heat of 
the city. It is like taking leave of you 
to stop writing. How I want to see vou ! 

(To be continued.) 


IF Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne does not write 
according to a formula, it is because 
the Providence that gave him his 
other gifts has neglected to providci 
him with literary self -consciousness. Cer- 
tainly it would not be difficult to con- 
struct one for him. 

Given one wife and children or aged 
mother in indigence, one previous shady 
transaction, or one thirst for drink, and 
you have ready to hand your Pressing 
Motive for service in doubtful waters. 
Given one penchant for composing poetry 
in moments of danger or one pride in a 
father who was clergyman for sixty-two 
years in a Scotch town whose syllables 
translate "Nowhere," and you have your 
quaint and pleasing individual character- 
istics. Given one monkey wrench or one 
gun, and you have your weapon of su- 
premacy — always effective against any 
odds. Given without question an ability 
to lick anything of any weight at any 
time, and you have your personal prow- 
ess. Given a tramp steamer with rusted 
rivets and womout plates, a "coffee mill" 
engine, an insubordinate crew, or some- 
thing equally terrifying, and you have 
your milean. Given hidden treasure, 
small but inimical governments, gun- 
boats, Chinese insurrections or any other 
excitement to be gleaned from the daily 
prints or the Lithograph Library, and 
you have your adventure. Combine them 
all. Keep— I was going to say. weari- 
somely — intact always the pressing mo- 
tive, the pleasing individual characteris- 
tic, the weapon of supremacy, and the 
personal prowess. Vary the milean and 
the adventure. Lead unfailingly back 
through untoward cricumstance to the 
pressing motive. Repeat as often as the 
public will stand it. There to the life 
stands Captain Kettle or McTodd. 

The combination as worked by Mr. 
Hyne is always eminently readable. The 

*McTodd. By Cutliffe Hyne. New York: 

*Sea Scamps. By Henry C. Rowland. New 
York: McQure, Phillips & Company. 

*The Way of the Sea, By Norman Dun- 
can. New York: McQure, Phillips ft Corn- 

adventures are sprightly, and the milean 
is as varied as that of a modem concert 
hall song of six verses. You enjoy the 
invulnerability of the leading characters, 
you marvel at the ease with which strong 
men succumb to the weapon of suprem- 
acy or the personal prowess, you cock 
your head and look wise as the technical 
details of the milean twinkle on your ear. 
Then when the curtain descends you go 
out into the street and perhaps wonder 
how the actors look without their make- 
up. There is plenty of action in these 
stories, and no real life; plenty of lime- 
light, but no sea. 

Mr. Henry Rowland, to the contrary, 
in his Sea Scamps goes to the other ex- 
treme. He has no art at all. He insists 
on your taking an interest in his men, 
but refuses to characterise them ade- 
quately until the last of his book. He 
tells stories from the points of view of 
three different individuals — one of them 
English— in the uniform language of Mr. 
Henry Rowland. On reading them, a 
craftsman is almost irresistibly tempted 
to pull the yams to pieces, to reconstmct 
them, to give to their incidents the proper 
values and proportions. And yet withal 
they are the real thing. 

For to save you, you cannot get over 
the notion that these affairs really hap- 
pened. Wild and improbable as is the 
story entitled "Back Tracks," it never- 
theless impresses you as authentic. Per- 
haps the very fact that the method is so 
back-handed and criss-cross and uncon- 
ventional adds to this feeling. It is as 
though you had heard the incidents at first 
hand, or had read of them in the hasty 
English of a cable dispatch. These things 
happened thus and so, I know it because 
I was there; although I should have 
stated some time ago the following facts 
which are essential: — ^that is about the 
way it mns. And then slowly, little by 
little the personality of the big Yankee 
trader, Jordan Knapp, g^ows out of the 
latter stories, and you arise and curse 
aloud and say, "Why didn't he tell me all 
this before? I'd have enjoyed the first 
ones so much better/' The final story, 
"At the Last of the Ebb,*' is, however, of 



a different sort, and out of place in this 
book. I should almost be tempted to 
predicate that the hero's name had been 
changed to Jordan Knapp to admit of 
inclusion here. 

The Way of the Sea, however, is both 
good an and reality. The atmosphere 
of the great grey deeps saturates its 
pages. The sweep of the wind, "the dash 
of the breakers, the grinding rise and fall 
of the matted ice flow, the unflinching 
facing of* hardship, danger, and death, 
the hard' granite of the coast, the hard 
granite of men's characters, are all abso- 
lutely conveyed. As absolutely, but more 
subtly, are conveyed the influences of the 
sea, its mysteries, its predestinations, its 
impartialities, its remotenesses from the 
standards men have set for human na- 
ture, its immoralities. The sea is cruel, 
says one story ; it is strong, says another ; 
it is pitiless, says a third ; it is indifferent 
say all, going on in its predestined and 
eternal way utterly unmindful of what 
may be its effect on the men whose char- 

acters are moulded on its influences. 

This it seems to me is the way of the 
sea as brought out in these excellent 
stories. I will venture to say, however, 
that this was not Mr. Duncan's idea of 
that way when he wrote them. Tempera- 
mentally, Mr. Duncan seems to look on 
the sublime only as refracted through the 
terrible. His stories deal with but a 
single aspect of his subject. The sea is 
not always grey and driven, not always 
menacing, not always grasping at the 
lives of men ; her sons are not always 
grim, taciturn, slow, without humour. 
That is a way of the sea. The sea has 
also her gentle moods, her laughing 
moods, her kind moods, her bountiful 
moods, and the men who sail her and are 
made by her correspond. Mr. Duncan 
has seen fit to ignore the bright days for 
the grey, but we can quarrel but mildly 
with him for that. Within, perhaps, self- 
imposed limitations he has given us a re- 
markably strong piece of work. 

Stewart Edvfwd White, 


Whosoe'er will praise my sweetheart 
Is silenced evermore by admiration, 
And ventures on too great boldness 
Speaking of charms that cannot be compared. 

And envy too that joined itself to death, 
And ardently to blame her often tried. 
On seeing her sweet face, though even blamed, 
Determines likewise to abstain from speech. 

Thus wheresoever she in beauty passes 
A voiceless emotion of the heart is left 
And deepest silence too behind her. 

All loi^ to do her honour but do not dare 
For all presumption by her modesty is checked 
And each one dazzled by her radiance. 


csltbratad ttaronghont Italy OD tiM 

ASTI is a name known generally 
because of its excellent wines, 
the famous "Barbera" and the 
frothing Asti (Asti Spumante) 
which is similar to champagne, and ri- 
vals it. But Asti is known in Uie world 
not only for this but also for the part 
which it has played in the history of 
Piedmont and Italy during various 

Situated almost in the centre of the 
long and somewhat narrow valley of To- 
maro, surrounded by small hills rich in 
vegetation, it is above all a commercial 

town and has a numerous hard-working 
and industrious population. Its remote 
origin is Greek as is seen from its name 
Gerajus Pompejus Strabo, the Roman 
Consul in Gaul, who admired it called 
it "Asta Pompea, the city of the thou- 
sand towers." 

It was besieged often. Frederic Bar- 
barossa burned and destroyed it eleven 
times, but the undaunted inhabitants al- 
ways rebuilt it. till in i iR^ they were left 
alone in peace. Lonp before the Lom- 
bards and the Florentines, the rich Re- 
publicans of Asti were the bankers of 



Europe and had their banks everywhere, 
but especially in Flanders and in France, 
Then the struggles between the Guelfs 
and the Ghibiliines, whose partisans in 
Asti were the noble families of the Solari 
and the Guttnari, ruined the city and the 
Republic, till in 1531 it was annexed by 
the House of Savoy. It was in this an- 
cient city full of Gothic monuments and 
rich in historical memories that there was 
celebrated last month the first centenary 
of Vittorio Alfieri, the tragic poet and 
dramatist, who holds in Italy the same 
position that Schiller holds in Germany. 

Alfieri was born 
in 1749. ten years 
before Schiller, and 
he felt new possi- 
bilities for the 
drama without 
clearly realising 
what character 
these possibilities 
would assume in 
the future. He felt 
that dramatic art 
was losing its vig- 
our and to revivi- 
fy it he combined 
the conceptions of 
the Middle Ages 
with the dramatic 
form of Greek 
tragedy, and on 
this he concen- 
trated all his 

If Schiller is 
with reason more 
widely known than 
Alfieri, it is because 

the former in his *^ 

dramas represents 

men and women as they are to be found in 
all nations, while the latter is almost en- 
tirely national. Indeed we may say that he 
is the first Italian born who found in Italy 
the idea of a fatherland and who sought 
with all his strength to inspire the minds 
of his countrymen with the same ideal. 
Judged by the standard of his time and 
of his class, Alfieri was poorly instructed, 
and grew up ignorant and lazy until his 
twenty- seventh year by which time, how- 
ever, he had travelled all over Italy, 
France, Spain, Scandinavia, England, 
and Germany. 

It would be a long story, indeed, to de- 

scribe the youth of this genius who be- 
came great through the force of his iron 
will and through the openness of his 

At Versailles, when presented to Louis 
XV,, he was amused at the monarch who 
acted the part of a Jupiter, At Schon- 
brunn, he would not meet the poet Me- 
tostasio because he held that the latter's 
miisa scrz'ilis had been sold to the ser- 
vice of the despotic Maria Theresa. In 
Berlin, he saw but "una cascma univer- 
sale" (huge barracks) and was heartily 
thankful that he had not been born a sub- 
ject of that soldier- 
king. When Al- 
fieri expressed him- 
self thus he was al- 
ready acquainted 
with the writings of 
Montesquieu, Hel- 
vetius, Plutarch, 
Rousseau, and Vol- 
taire; he was espe- 
cially impressed by 
Plutarch with 
whom he found 
many things in 
common, such as 
their thirst for jus- 
tice and liberty. 

Alfieri has been 
accused of a rude 
form in his tragic 
]K)etry, and this is 
true because he be- 
came a poet more 
through force of 
determination than 
because of any nat- 
ural aptitude. In 
■^^- one of his epigrams 

he shows us his in- 
ner being: 

Pensor li fo. 

Taccia ho d' osciiro? 

Mi schiarira 

Pol liberta.* 

In reality in the dawn of liberty he and 

Foscolo were raised to the pedestal which 

was their due. It is not so much the poet 

as the man that this paper aims to de- 

*Do ihey find me riuk? I know it well. I 
make ihcm think. They call me incompre- 
hensible. But in the light of liberty all will 
understand me. 



scribe. That and the chief reason that 
prompted Alfieri to leave, as he himself 
writes, "una vita giovanitc oriosissima" 
(his life of indolent youth) to dedicate 
himself to the muses. 

Towards the middle of 1773 at Turin he 
fell in love with a lady of noble family, 
seven years older than he, about whom 

Choiseul wanted to try to regain for him 
the throne, but was forced to admit that 
it was impossible to reestablish on the 
throne a man "who had lost all dignity," 
for he had at this time written "de vivre 
et pas vivre est beaucoup pis que 
mourir" (to live and yet not really to live 
is worse than death), and so had given 

there were many stories afloat. This lady himself up to drinking, 
fell ill, and Alfieri who nursed her, to The next year, in 1771, in his fifty- 
pass the long and vearisome hours of first year, Charles Edward Stuart was 
watching, began to write and in this way bethrothed with Louise of Stolberg, 

wrote his first 
tragedy, Cleopatra. 
Bui this lady was 
not the twin-soul 
that was to inspire 
the poet. He found 
this ideal in the 
person of Louise of 
Stolberg, Countess 
of Albany, and 
wife of the last 
Stuart, who by 
force of arms, tried 
to regain the Eng- 
lish throne. 

The meeting 
took place in 1777 
in the month of 
October. It was 
this lady, famous 
for the name that 
she bore, and fa- 
mous later for the 
part she played, 
that was the real 
muse of Alfieri. 

Her husband, 
when Alfieri knew 
him, was no long- 
er the young, 
handsome, and 
dashing cavalier, 
the "Bonnie Prince 
Charlie," adored by Scotland. None any 
longer saw in him, the victor of Preston 
Pans and Falkirk, the vanquished of Cul- 
loden. Abandoned by France, excluded 
from the throne by the Treaty of Aix-la- 
Chapelle, first he found a refuge in the 
arms of Miss Clementine Walkinshaw, 
whom he had known at the siege of Ster- 
ling Castle and then in the strong waters 
that made him hunch-backed, florid, stut- 
tering, and melancholy. 

The unfortunate Prince was in this 
condition in 1770 when the Duke de 

was but nineteen 

years old, and he 
married her on the 
advice of the Duke 
d'Aiguillon, the 
French Minister 
for Foreign Af- 
fairs. She was de- 
scended from 
Bruce, the national 
hero of Scotland, 
and France al- 
lowed Stuart on 
his mariiage with 
her an annual grant 
of two hundred 
and forty thousand 

After the legal 
arrangements the 
marriage was cele- 
brated at Macerala 
on Good Friday, 
1772, in the monu- 
mental palace of 
Count Compag- 
noni - Marefoschi, 
one of the most de- 
voted adherents of 
the Stiiarl cause. 
A medal was 
struck to commem- 
oraie the occasion. 
From Macerala the couple travelled to 
Rome, where they lived in Palazzo Muti 
on which the royal arms of the Stuarts 
did not now appear. Louise, neverthe- 
less, always signed with an R, and also 
"regina apostolorum." The Romans 
called her "Queen of Hearts." 

Carl Bonstellen, who saw her at this 
time, has written of her: "Luisa was of 
medium stature, she had light hair, dark 
blue eyes, a nose slightly retrousse, a 
clear pink complexion, regular features, 
and beautiful teeth. She was slightly 



malicious, bright and sharp ; full of fun, 
more French than German, and quite 
capable of turning a man's brain." It is 
easy to un<Ierstan<l therefore that Louise, 
Canoness of Saint Vadru «le Mons, 
should fall in love in her twenty-fourth 
year and at the height of her beauty and 
charm with the handsome and fiery poet 
of Asti, who himself was hardly five 
years older. 

Their first meeting was at Florence in 
the autumn, and immediately the poet 
became enchained by "those new volun- 
tary golden fetters." Two months after- 
wards Alfieri said to himself that "la 
sur vera donna era quella" (she was the 
true lady of his heart), and when con- 
fessing told his learnetl friend Tomaso 
Valperega di Cahiso, who has been called 
"Montaigne redivivus" of his passion. 

and the abbot who understood, absolved 
him from all fault. 

In 1779 on the night of St. Andrew's 
Day, Louse had a violent altercation with 
her husljand ; and Alfieri. with the con- 
sent of the Grand Duke Leopohl of Tus- 
cany, helped her to fly for refuge to the 
convent of the white nuns ( Dellc IJian- 
chclle) to ]>rotcct her from the ill treat- 
ment of her jealous and drunken hus- 

From the convent Louise fled to Rome 
with Alfieri and an Irish gentleman, to 
he there under the protection of her 
brother-in-law, the Canlinal of York. 
who welcomed her and received her into 
his own palace. In Rome Louise applied 
for a divorce from Pius \"I., her applica- 
tion being snpporte<l by the Tuscan Gov- 
ernment and by the Papal Xoncc in Fior- 



ence. The Pope encouraged her to hope. 

Meanwhile, Alfieri who had written for 
her his play, Mary Stuart, went back- 
wards and forwards from Naples to 
Rome to see her, and these frequent visits 
gave rise to much talk in the gossipy 
world of Papal Rome. Alfieri himself 
wrote that "all that pious horror of the 
priests was neither due to their holiness, 
nor was it wanting of envious jealousy." 

This period was, as it were, the honey- 
moon of Louise and Alfieri ; at this time 
were written the sonnets of Psipio to 
Psipia which Louise copied dudng a long 
forced stay at Genzano, where she was 
jealously guarded. 

Finally, in 1784, under pressure from 
Gustavus IIL of Sweden, who was then 
in Rome under the incognito of Count of 
The Hague. Charles Stuart decided upon 
divorce, and Louise regained her liberty. 
Immediately she went to Baden and 
thence to Colmar where soon Alfieri came 
to her from Modcna, and there together 
for the first time they spent a life of calm 
happiness — she adoring her poet, he hard 
at work and full of love for her. And at 
Colmar Alfieri composed his tragedies, 
Agide, Saphouisba, and Mirra. 

It would take us too long to follow the 
lovers in their constant travels from place 
to place. Their stay in Paris, whither 


they went to look after the publication 
of Alfieri's works, is noteworthy because 
there Louise received news of the death 
of her husband in February, 1788. Alfieri 
then wrote to the Abbot of Caluso: "I 
am certain that this husband of hers, in 
spite of the difference in years between 
them, would have found in Louise an ex- 




cellent friend and companion, nay, even a 
loving woman, had he not exasperated 
by his continuous coarse, drunken be- 

Undoubtedly the love of Louise was 
for Alfieri the purifying fire which im- 
pelled him courageously to work and to 
win glory. In his sonnets where we see 
his soul reflected, Alfieri savs that it was 
love that made him devote himself to his 
work, and he repeats the same thought in 
his dedication to Louise of his play Mirra 
". . . although thou wer't the fount 
of all, and I began to live only from that 
day when my life was united with thine." 

In Paris Alfieri and Louise entertained 
largely, and to their salon there flocked 
the cleverest men, the Baron de Stael- 
Holstein, Beaumarchais, Mirabeau, the 
dramatist Talma, Cherubini, Josephine de 
Beauharnais, Madame de Genlis, the two 
brothers Chenier, and the Italian poet 
Ippolili Pindemonte whom Alfieri nick- 
named "mv washerwoman," because he 
polished what Alfieri had written in a 
more fluent style. 

Alfieri was in Paris at the year of the 
great Revolution, and with Pindemonte 
helped at the storming of the Bastile ; he 
was full of enthusiasm for the Revolution 
which soon enough he had cause to hate 
for its terrible excesses. A little incident 
at table shows how this detestation arose, 
on the day that the Revolutionists 
brought back as prisoners the royal fam- 
ily that had fled to Varennes ; there was 
dining with Alfieri and Louise David 
d'Angers then a Jacobine and later Baron 
and Court-painter to Napoleon. Louise 
on hearing the news, expressed her sym- 
pathy for Marie Antoinette, whereupon 
David with scant courtesv exclaimed : 
"You call her an unfortunate woman? 
She is a harpy, and I think it is a pity 
that the crowd did not strangle her." 

From that day Alfieri, republican and 
free-thinker, the author of the Tiramide, 
and of so many other plays where love of 
liberty is worshiped as a sacred thing 
hated the French Revolution. Next vear, 
in 1790, began the Reign of Terror, and 
Alfieri and Louise went to England and 
visited Oxford, Blenheim, Bath, Hamp- 
ton Court, and finally, going to London 
stayed with General Conway in Park 
Place. And it was in this year, on the 
igth of May, to be exact, that Louise 
Stuart was presented by Lady Anna Ben- 

don, Countess of Alsburg, to George III. 
and Queen Caroline, the usurper of her 
throne. Walpole, with much reason 
styled this visit of the widow of Charles 
Stuart "to be in bad taste." Louise, 
Countess of Albany, in fact was wanting 
in tact to be in her own roval box with 
the usurpers, and showed a want of com- 
mon sense. 

Then they returned to the Continent 
by way of Brussels and Mons, the birth- 
place of Louise, and so on to Paris where 
they were present at the destruction of 
the Tuileries on the loth of August, 
1792; and Alfieri grew more bitter still 
against the Revolution and conceived the 
plan of his Misogallo, a terrific satire 
against the French. 

When he returned to Florence the 
emotions undergone in Paris prompted 
him to write, as follows, of his own coun- 
try: "In my youth I have not been spar- 
ing in harsh words against thee; and 
now that I return again to thee tamed 
and softened by long experience, if in 
other nations I see faults, the faults in 
thee I regard with a son's love." 

For Alfieri Florence was peace after 
storm, and in this birthplace of Dante 
and Michelangelo Alfieri and Louise 
lived those other years that they were yet 
to spend together ; those years were spent 
in love, in printing poetry, and in recita- 
tions, for Alfieri, like Voltaire, used to 
recite his writings. They lived in that 
old palace on the Lungarno Corsini 
which lay between the Ponte della 
Trinita and the Ponte della Carraia, two 
monuments of the thirteenth century. 

On the 7th of October, 1803, sounded 
the hour for the eternal parting, and the 
soul of Alfieri left his body. He had suf- 
fered for long years from gout, and in 
the end it killed him. Alfieri was then in 
his fiifty-fourth year. The remains of the 
free-thinking Italian poet were visited 
and held in honour by Chateaubriand, 
the poet of Christianity. 

During the many years that the poet 
dwelt with Louise Stolberg, not one seri- 
ous trouble arose between them and their 
love was constant. In the last years of 
his life Alfieri wrote about Louise: "Af- 
ter so many years . . . and after so 
many disappointments ever more and 
more I am attracted to my friend and all 
the more that her beauty has been slowly 
ravaged by time ; she inspired my mind ; 



and I dare say, she too was supported 
and encouraged by me." 

Two months after Alfieri's death, 
Louise wrote in a similar way about him 
to d'Anse de Willaison, saying: "That 
he never gave her a moment of displeas- 
ure, nay that at his side she had only 
felt love and respect." 

Louise did all she could in honour of 
her poet's memory. She published the 
writings of Alfieri a year after his death. 
Then she ordered that wonderful monu- 
ment of Canova's which adorns his tomb 
in Santa Croce at Florence, a real Par- 
thenon of Italian glory, where he is 
resting between Galileo and MachiaveUi. 
This high honour is due to Alfieri who 
more than any other struggled for the 
regeneration of Italy, 

Did Alfieri marry Louise d' Albany af- 
ter the death of Charles Stuart? Some 
say he did not, others say he did, adding 
that only the marriage was not published 
in consideration of the Cardinal of York. 
Napoleon L, who wished to make her ac- 
quaintance, invited her to Paris, and 
made her stay fifteen months. After this 
Louise returned to Florence, where she 
met with Lamartine, Werner, the Baron 
of Stael, Humboldt, T h or waldsen, Ranch, 
P. L. Courier, the Englishman Mil- 
lingen, Foscolo, and many other great 

They did not blame her or pay atten- 
tion to her somewhat untimely affection, 
after her poet's death, for a young 
French painter, Fabrc. 

Frederick ParonelH. 

star of Rope 

Published Bi-We^kly 
in Sing Sing Prison, Jfew York, V. S A. 



. I.99I. 





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CkaHcaR. Wafcrr. 
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Br No. 1500 

NOTE.— Number 1500, who founded the " Star of Hope" at Sing Sing Prison, and was its editor and chief 
writer during four years, recently finished his sentence and left the prison gates behind him. We know 
of no one better fitted to write about the subject of this article. For very obvious reasons he does not 
wish his name to be published, so the article appears over the old signature, "Number 1500," which, until 
a few -weeks ago, was so familiar to the readers of the '*Star of Hope."— T/ttf Editors of The Bookman. 

WITH the liberalisation of 
prison methods and discipline 
in recent years in America the 
prison newspaper and convict 
journalism has arrived. In half a dozen 
state prisons convicts write, edit, and print 
their own newspapers, and the educational 
value of the work has made it permanent. 
That this is so cannot be deemed strange 
in this countrv, where it has been 
accepted as a principle that a church, a 
school, and a newspaper are the foci of 
every successful new settlement and the 
necessities of every established com- 
munity. How soon this faith as applied 
to the newspapers themselves may be re- 
versed, lies within the papers themselves, 
but not so with those printed in prison. 
They are issued under official censorship 
and are not permitted any yellow eccen- 
tricities to work their undoing. Some of 
them are edited and managed by the 
chaplains and are as unattractive as the 
sermons addressed to the prisoners. They 
have only the interest and vigour of the 
conventional kind and are chiefly valu- 
able to the prisoner as waste paper. But 
those edited, conducted, and written by 

the prisoners, as the Star of Hope, Prison 
Mirror, Ohio Penitentiary News, and 
The Mentor are of a different kind and 
furnish a sidelight upon their way of 
thinking, their views of life, its duties, 
and particularly of its sinfulness that is 
of first value to the student of penology. 
It may be inferred that such a prison 
paper would be more or less the voice of 
organised hypocrisy. In a measure, that 
is true. The convict seeking executive 
clemency naturally strives to emphasise 
the thoroughness of his own reformation, 
and the open columns of a prison paper 
furnish an inviting wav for making his 
declaration of a new life. Some of the 
sermons preached in print by confirmed 
rascals are really edifying and lack only 
sincerity to make them candid. But the 
Uriah Heeps soon mark themselves and a 
much more representative publication 
follows in which very striking facts 
about the convict community appear. In 
a prison population such as in the five 
penal institutions of New York, which is 
maintained at about 370omen and women, 
every degree of intelligence is found. 
University men, students of applied 



science, reading and thinking men, ca- 
pable, vigorous writers with ideas of their 
own in equal number to those from a 
communitj' of the same size taken from 
the everv-day walks of life. It will be 
found that physicallj', mentally and spirit- 
ually a prison community is alxjut of the 
average of the human race and that it is 
not, as many persons seem to think, 
a class of beings marked all over as dif- 
ferent from their fellowmen. Their pe- 
culiar views about property and possibly 
the sanctity of human life are spasmodi- 
cally entertained and the pastoral joys of 
Gilbert's burglar are not burlesque in the 
minds of the imprisoned criminal by any 
means. In fact, he is very much like 
other men, except for his particular fail- 
ings and possibly for a further connection 
in his mind that this difference is more 
closely concerned with his detection than 
his predisposition to steal or slay at cer- 
tain ill-chosen times. Among these men 
and women there is a large number who 
earnestly but blindly seek to find a better 
path in life. That they do not often suc- 
ceed has been due to their own incapaci- 
ties to make a sustained effort or to select 
aims with sufficient clearness and general- 
ly speaking, to their ignorance and weak- 
ness, I say there has been, for in very 
recent years a change in the methods of 
treating convicted prisoners has been 
made that amounts to a revolution. It 
has been beneficent in manv ways and 
prison journalism is one of its expres- 
sions. The convicts' mental activities 
have been directed in healthier channels, 
have been given a new perspective in life, 
and it is reasonable to believe, are slowly 
lifted to a higher, moral plane. 

In the midst of this activity, tending 
towards the amelioration of the condition 
of the prisoner, the time was propitious 
for the launching of a paper in the Em- 
pire State prisons. After weeks of ma- 
ture thought and planning, the writer pre- 
pared the necessary prospectus by the 
kind permission of the then warden, Col- 
onel Omar V. Sage, who. in turn, pre- 
sented the plan to the Superintendent of 
Prisons, C. V. Collins, and permission 
was immediately granted for the publish- 
ing of the Star of Hope. 

From its first issue of eight pages, its 
field being confined to Sing Sing Prison, 
until July 15, 1899, when it was enlarged 
to sixteen pages and included all the 
prisons, was very thankfully received and 
cordially supported by more than two- 
thirds of the prisons' population. During 
the four years that the paper was edited 
and conducted by the writer, it was writ- 
ten by about 1200 prisoners. It printed 
the news of the prisons and some little 
news of the outside world. It discussed 
editorally and in communications, all 
sorts of ethical and economic questions 
and accepted the responsibility of circu- 
lating a variety of the poetic product 
which is as certain to come out of a cell 
as a man is to go into it, and it strove to 
urge upon its readers the lessons of hon- 
esty, truthfulness and cleanness of speech. 
For all these purposes the direction was 
absolutely within the editorial control. In 
establishing the paper no fixed policy was 
laid down by the prison department. The 
writer planned it and decided upon its 
policy, knowing quite as well as his su- 
periors what was befitting and his instruc- 
tions were to proceed upon his own lines. 



Previous to the establishing of the outlay was limited to paper and ink. 

Star of Hope, printing had been one of Printers among the inmates, let it be said 

the prison industries and the product of to the credit of the craft, were not abun- 

the department had, until the adoption of dant, but there were a few, and these 

the Constitutional Amendment of 1897 were recruited by the selection of some 

which put an end to convict employment nimble-fingered apprentices who were 


ti „N0 ,.«,50N, OJSIN 

HG, N. v., ,UNE M. .f 

1 H.. t 






^ S... i.. 

,J..)0 ■* 


; — 'i^'S-JiS.iKKS.Tfe-jsyr'- 

in competition with free labor, gone into 
the open market. The plant included a 
fine cylinder press and an etjuipment for 
job work that any provincial office might 
envy, and thus furnished with all needed 
mechanical appliances, the preliminary 

soon able to hold a stick, and the work 
began. The first issue was dated April 
22, 1899. In this initial number the fol- 
lowing prospectus appeared : 

" 'Be to its faults a little blind 
Be to its virtues very kind.' 

a 84 


■kfkmk rn-l Ml Di ■■• ;n I 

Ulbn hiicM^li li l>n h>ii|b1 

"With the timely suggestion that these 
lines present we are gratified to be able 
to lay before the inmates of the institu- 
tion, the initial number of the Star of 
Hope, thereby augmenting the field of in- 
stitutional journalism. In extending a 
salutation to our readers we realize that 
we could not occupy an editor's chair un- 
der more favorable circumstances. We 
are relieved of the remorseless pangs of 
unstable subscription lists or delinquent 
advertisers. The paper happily has no 
subscription price, consequently the pros- 
pects are fair for a full complement of 
subscribers an<I our treasury will not be- 
come depleted by large fees to its con- 
tributors. Under such circumstances we 
are pleased to announce that the Star of 
Hope has been brought into existence by 
the forethought of the Warden, and the 
approval of the Superintendent of Prisons 
for the benefit of us all. The paper is 
ours and its place in history rests entirely 
in oiff hands. Its aim and scope will be 
to furnish the inmates with a summary 
of the news of the outside world and to 
stimulate interest among the men toward 

higher and nobler mental training. The 
questions of criminology and penology 
will be liberally presented and religious 
and educational interests will always find 
space in its columns. We solicit your aid 
and cooperation, invite suggestions and 
criticisms and ask your kind considera- 
tion of our efforts, and hope that each 
one may be the recipient of some profit 
through the paper's existence and that the 
efforts put forth by those directly con- 
nected with the publication may not be in 

The makeup and general appearance 
of the paper was found to be satisfactory 
and convenient for the publishing facili- 
ties of the plant. Naturally the first is- ' 
sue contained considerable reprint, but 
every succeeding issue up to the present 
day, has contained nothing but contribu- 
tions from the pens of the prisoners, with 
few exceptions, of the four State prisons, 
the Eastern New York Reformatory, and 
an occasional contribution from the more 
rational patients of the Matteawan State 
Hospital, where the paper for the past 
two years has had a regtdar circulation 
of one hundred. This policy was neces- 
sary, for the object of the journal is dis- 
tinctly educational, maintained on a level 
adapted to the men and women to whom 
it was addressed. 

The intimate relation between the 
paper and the inmates, the personal pride 
and pleasure that always predominated, 
was something extraordinary-, mainly 
from the fact that every prisoner grasped 
the idea that was always emphasised, that 
it was Ihcir paper and no opportunity for 
its improvement through generous con- 
tributions and suggestions was wanting. 
One of the puzzling questions that occu- 
pied the writer's mind when the prospec- 
tus was being prepared, was whether suf- 
ficient contributions would be forthcom- 
ing to meet the plan and requirements of 
the editorial policy of the paper. But it 
was not long before such a doubt was re- 
moved, for it may be readily conceived 



what a voluminous output of literary 
product reached the writer from the three 
thousand seven hundred persons ehgible 
as contributors. The local editors at the 
different institutions were appointed by 
the Superintendent of Prisons, upon 
recommendation of the editor-in-chief, 
and they were direct!)' responsible for the 
manuscripts submitted by their colleagues 
and they, in turn, forwarded them to the 
writer at the Home Office, as the editor's 
sanctum was known, where they were 
registered in their order of reception and 
published as expeditiously as possible. 

One fact the writer endeavoured to im- 
press upon his inmate readers : Practice 
in writing, like practice in every other 
field of endeavour, makes perfect, and the 
encouragement and patience in this direc- 
tion that was never allowed to be lost 
sight of, brought results. 

During the four years of the paper's 
hfe, 5160 contributions were received and 
filed and while many of the manuscripts 
were very cru<le, very few lound their 
way to the waste paper basket. Among 
this mass of articles there was an over- 
flow of verse. It is said that oppression 
is necessary to the production of a na- 
tional poetry, and in line with that dic- 
tum the product of the prisoners flowed in 
in mighty currents. In one month there 
were received 311 poems, most of them 
trash, but all of them earnest and gen- 
erally pathetic. It told the story of happy 
memories, of boyhood and . girlhood 


dreams, laid a heavy tribute on the recol- 
lections of mother, and repeated the 
rhymes of simple words in metres that 
defy classification. Much of the poetry 
emanated from the Women's Prison, and 
was highly creditable to the "poetesses" 
of that institution. To such an extent is 
that true that the initials W. P. placed at 
the head of a set of stanzas in the Star of 
Hope could often be, and happily, trans- 
lated "well poetised" rather than — other- 
wise. One of the reasons for this, how- 
ever, is not difficult to assign. It is quite 
generally conceded that, in general, woman 
possesses, in far greater measure and 
point of development than man, the 
imaginative, emotional, and artistic per- 
ceptions and faculties. Hence by nature 
she is the more inclined toward and bet- 
ter qualified for poetic sentiment and in- 
spiration which constitute the very es- 
sence of poetry, versification and rhyme 
being tlie mere adjuncts of expression. 

For publication, the several articles 
submitted were not judged as to their lit- 
erary merit, in fact in the revision of them 
no changes were made except where very 
flagrant grammatical errors predominated 
and mistakes in punctuation corrected. 
TJie writer's policy was not to change or 
alter the sense and meaning that the au- 
thor wished to convey in the process of 
revision so that the contributor would 
not lose his interest and discontinue his 
literary endeavor. 

To be sure among the large prisons' 
population, which was thoroughly cos- 
mopolitan, there were many who could 
not contribute to the paper's columns, 
scarcely being able to write their own 
names. However, when the paper was 





m ■" ' 



established a new incentive towards self- 
improvement along educational lines 
seemed to permeate the whole body of in- 
mates. I add here three copies of notes 
I received during the first months of the 
paper's history that speak for themselves : 
"This is my first attempt at writing for 
the paper. Be patient with me for when 
I came here a few weeks ago I could 
neither read nor write." Another: "I 
send you a few lines for the Star of Hope. 
Please excuse spelling and writing. I am 
past forty and most ashamed to say that 
I was not able to read or write when I en- 
tered prison a few months ago. The 
teaching I have received here has made 
me a better man. I have decided crime 
does not pay." Finally: "What a bless- 
ing the paper is to us men. I send you 
a feeble attempt and if yoti can use it will 
be glad to try again. Excuse my poor 
writing which I have learned since com- 
ing here. Pardon my errors." 

The general character of the contribu- 
tions was as diversified as might be pre- 
sumetl, emanating as they did from such 
a cosmopohtan constituency. The seri- 
ous, grave, and humourous, all found 
their way to the paper's columns. 

A life woman at Auburn, who was so 
fortunate as to be commuted by Former 
Governor Roosevelt, penned the follow- 
nng Salutatory in verse : 

The matron walked in one morning, 

Oh, what a happy day, 
A smile was her face adnming 

And this is what she did say; 

"Girls, you arc granted permission 
To write tor the Star of Hope, 

I know there will be no omission 
You all will do well I hope." 

Said one: "We all thank yon. matron, 
And each will pick up her pen. 

And, girls, let us all write something 
To show we're as good as the men." 

ightway made an 
Vou men will quickly V 
're good and give us 
ladies will be good ir 


So I send you my first little poem. 

Please do not throw it away, 
For my next I will feci more at home 
And thus will improve every day. 

A life man acting in the capacity of 
local editor at the Eastern New York Re- 
fonnatory and a former actor well known 
in dramatic circles in New York City, 
wrote the following for a special Thanks- 
giving issue under the title, "A Tur- 
key ette" : 

Folks when eating good old turkey 

Should be up in etiquette. 
They .should follow its directions, 

So all the rules would be met; 
They should seal themselves at table 

In a manner stanch and stiff; 
With their nose high up toilet them 

the odor 


They should not gaze at the plates 

Where the steaming gobbler lies; 
When they find they've got the wish bone 

They should murmur in surprise; 
They should cut the meat up stylish, 

Eat the stuffing very swell; 
If it is a tough old rooster — 

They should eat and never tell. 

They should try with knife to cut it. 

And remove il from the bone. 
And if some meat sticks, remember, 

They should let the bone alone. 
If it's extra tough and wanders 

To directions north and south. 
Why just grab it in the fingers. 

And remove it with your mouth. 

One of the best and cleverest poems 
that was ever printed in the journal was 
the following by a life man at Sing Sing : 



The breeze is frcighled with fragrance 
From forest and field and lea; 

But youth has fled and hope lies dead, 
So what are they all to me? 

The blue-bird rocks on the tree-tops. 

Swings and sways and warbles, 
With never a flutter of care. 

Memories never haunt him, 
No thought of the morrow has he, 

But the guarded wall like a sombre pall, 
O'ershadows it all for me. 

I sit in the glowing twilight. 
And gaze on the evening sky, 

On the glorious sunset banners 
That athwart the hill-lops lie. 

ment in Auburn Prison for highway rob- 
bery, committed in Oneida County, and 
a few years later was transferred to the 
Matteawaii State Hospital as insane. Al- 
though now blind he was able to dictate 
the following entitled "Prospective 
Friend" : 

Most Holy God, I would be thine, 

Righteous, free from every crime. 
Surely Thou, as friend will shine 

Much is due the Little Mother. 
And of He thou knowest all, 

Unless the convict has another. 
Does for him behind the wall. 

But, O Jesus! it is hard 


the bond and the frei 
irs through ihe prise 

■Till the dia: 
Lock dowi 
But I see the stars 

So what are they 

All the flowers have lost their perfur 
The summer breeze is chill. 

The bees are naught but gluttons. 
And harsh the song-birds Irill; 

For the mighty voices of nature. 
Of earth, of Heaven, of sea. 

Have naught of cheer for the prisons 

What, what a 

A poem that attracted wide attention 
and was extensively copied by ex- 
changes, was the one written by Oliver 
Curtis Perry, who was sentenced a 
dozen years ago to forty years' imprison- 

As I suffered day by day, 

Leaning much upon Thy guard, 
Learning of Thine only way. 

Indeed, I know no other God, 
Neither shall I ever more. 

Good thou art Oh! chastening rod. 
Tell me, love me as before, 

Only let me always be 
Never ceasing all for Thee. 

Bewildering arc the many livea 
Oozing from a doctor's. mind, ■ 

Only Thou couldsl make it wise 
To the belter of mankind. 

How it came— mine eyes -are blind. 

Among the Star's contributors were 
represented nearly every profession and 
trade. Bookkeepers and clerks headed the 
list as to numbers, no less than five hun- 
dred contributed from time to time dur- 
ing the four years that the writer was 




editor. Journalism had its representation 
confined to three. One of this number, 
who had passed three score years, has 
served professionally in every capacity 
of the literary department of the leading 
dailies in this country from managing edi- 
tor down, and to-day, by his wide learning 
and versatile pen, is keeping up the lit- 
erary standard of the Star of Hope. 
Lawyers were more conspicuous among 
the paper's contributors, no less than a 
dozen having been represented in its col- 
umns. The profession of medical science 
had its representation to a very small de- 
gree. There were a few clergymen who 
amused and edified the paper's readers 
by their sentimental and doctrinal presen- 
tations. The balance of the contributors 
were made up of what might be generally 
termed labourers, and Iheir excellent lit- 
erary work added greatly to the interest 
of the paper's columns. 

It was always gratifying to the writer 

to know that he was certain to have on 
bis staff a competent artist and engraver, 
especially the former. The artistic and 
comic designs represented in the illustra- 
tions were all executed by inmates. The 
caricatures were the work of a former 
capable newspaper artist who has held 
positions on the New York dailies. For 
killing his sweetheart he was sentenced to 
prison for life and is at present local edi- 
tor at Auburn Prison. The cover design, 
the centre piece of the illustration, was 
drawn by the present staff artist, an Ital- 
ian, and hand engraved on copper plate. 
He is considered as the cleverest counter- 
feiter known. 

The modus operandi of issuing the 
paper from a mechanical point of view is 
an interesting process and is the same a.* 
adopted in all well regulated newspaper 

The writer prepared a "dummy" of the 
forthcoming issue for the guidance of the 




makeup and stone men. The copy was of Hope is the largest and most widely 
also revised and prepared by the editor circulated of prison papers published in 

and handed over to the proof-reader, who, 
in turn, entered it up in "takes'" on his 
book and sent it forth to the compositors, 
of whom there were fifteen on an average 
the year round. After the proof-reader 
had performed his duty, the revised 
proofs were passed along to the stone 
man for correction 
and when finished 
the makeup man 
took up the thread 
of the routine by 
following the 
"dummy" in mak 
ing up his pages 
After the pages 
were made up 
proofs were taken 
and the writer 
passed upon them 
finally, after which 
they were ordered 
into the form 
locked up and con 
veyed to the press 
man. After the 
pressman's work 
had been accom 
plished, a dozen 
men were set to 
work folding, in 
serting, and stitch 
ing the 5000 copies, 
the output bi-week- 
ly, and then they 
were carefully 
counted and ar- 
ranged for distri- 
bution to the differ- 
ent institutions un- 
der direction of the 
capable and pains- 
taking supe ri ntend- 
ent of the shipping 

It is well, per- 
haps, to repeat that the excellent me- 
chanical work on the Star of Hope, from 
every point of view, is the entire work 
of inmates — men, many of them never 
having seen the inside of a printing estab- 
lishment, who learned the entire trade in 


the world, and the excellent work it has 
done can never be estimated. 

The prison publications of the country 
include some strange issues and the one 
from Charlestown, Mass,, prison called 
The Mentor, deserves attention. It is 
written by hand and copied by mimeo- 
graph. It issues 
only two hundred 
copies of fifty 
pages each, aver- 
aging six hundred 
words to the page. 
That is to say it of- 
fers in solid read- 
ing matter, twelve 
and one-half col- 
umns of the size of 
a New York daily, 
a space in excess 
of that allotted 
daily to the local 
news by any met- 
ropolitan daily. 
Despite its curious 
appearance, The 
Mentor is no freak 
publication. It is 
earnest, original, 
and useful. Al- 
though keenly alive 
to humour and fun, 
it has a deep and 
underlying purpose 
in all it says and 
does. It seeks to 
be an educator of 
the public and the 
prisoners. It aims 
to show that the 
prisoner is worth 
being treated like a 
man, and that he 
will respond if 
given a chance, and 
it maintains a 
school through its 
columns which includes more than one- 
third of the prison population. The prison 
at Wethersfield, Conn,, issues a four-page 
paper called The Monthly Record, "de- 
voted to the interests of the inmates of 
the prison." The pioneer of prison 

the institution and as a monument to their papers is the Prison Mirror, issued from 
work no better specimen is needed than the prison at Stillwater, Minn, Ll 
any regular issue of the paper. The Star founded w\ 1%")% Vj "Oftt ■vn.w«v«^ ^ 


flUMM, Itm, SMrl«f, DowaNr t, mt. 

edited and managed by them. Its objects 
are to be a home newspaper, to encourage 
moral and intellectual improvement 
among the prisoners, to acquaint the pub- 
lic with the true status of the prisoners, 
and the dissemination of penological in- 
formation and to aid in dispelling that 
prejudice which has ever been the bar to a 
fallen man's self-redemption. The Ana- 
mosa (Iowa) Prison Press is a weekly 
issue of eight pages, and conducted by the 
chaplain. It belongs to the religious rather 
than the secular press. Columbus, Ohio, 
maintains the Ohio Penitentiary News, 
and as showing that a permanent popula-. 
tion at a state prison is not necessary 
for the life of a prison publication or 
periodical, there is issued monthly from 
the Chicago Jail the John L. Whitman 
Moral Impro^iement Journal. It is not 
such a formidable paper as its name 

would suggest. Of course nearly all the 
state reformatories print papers of some 
kind or another, while the insane asylums 
in nearly all states engage in similar en- 
terprises. In fact, it is a very modest 
community nowadays that is without its 
representative paper. Trans-Atlantic lin- 
ers have them, tfie colleges, the jackies 
on the men-of-war, the soldiers in camp, 
and a bulletin of news is struck off at in- 
tervals on the journey of the twenty-four 
expresses between New York and Chi- 
cago. It is not strange then that the con* 
victs have sought like utterance. Nu- 
merically, unfortunately, they are strong 
enough to do so. The oddity of it is, that 
a system of servitude which abhors the 
newspaper should be relaxed so as to 
permit them to enjoy a privilege common 
to all other men. 


" T HAVE been thinking over what 
I you said at the table," Miss Wain- 
I Wright remarked, after a little 
silence. "That one should have a 
definite purpose and plan before under- 
taking anything." 

Hardy, seated beside her on the vine- 
covered veranda of the house at which 
they had met that evening, found her 
looking at him gravely. She carried her 
head well and was tall and slender, which 
he especially admired. But what gave 
him the most distinct satisfaction was her 
earnestness — a directness of thou^t and 

speech which a low, rich voice, a tender 
mouth, and eloquent hands robbed of 
masculine su^estion. 

"I have strong opinions," he admitted. 

"And you are true to them in your 
action. You wouldn't do anything to 
which you did not believe?" 

"That is rather sweeping. It would 

"On circumstances?" 

"I am adrift amid generalities," he pro- 
tested. His smile was not indulgent, but 
might easily have been mistaken for such. 
Everything about him — big fram^ large 



head, wide mouth, thick hair, touched 
with gray at the temple, and steady eyes 
— ^spoke of power. His movements were 
deliberate, but with no hint of laziness. 

Bred to politics, equipped by mind and 
inclination for the law, at forty-five years 
of age Richard Hardy had put himself 
into the office of District Attorney by un- 
flagging work and capable manipulation 
of the elements of a political oligarchy. 
For five years he had consistently made 
it his aim to prove the legal guilt of other 
men. His friends ranged from half a 
dozen leaders of as many wards in the 
city to Dr. Matthew Cleveland, the fore- 
most interpreter in the country of Shake- 
speare. His library bespoke a Catholic 
mind; his dress the temperament of a 
man of the world. 

Miss Wainwright felt that he was 
looking into her eyes, not at them. But 
satisfied that this was his habit it did 
not discountenance her. "You wish a 
concrete case?*' she suggested. "I am 
able to supply that also. It is something 
I have wished to ask you since I first 
heard of your work as District Attorney. 
Is that — forbidden ground ?" 
By no means." 

After all it is but a hypothetical ques- 
tion," she reflected, turning a ring upon 
her finger. Then raising her face and 
speaking more decidedly. "Tell me, is a 
man in your position justified of his of- 
fice in helping to send to prison one 
whom he knows is innocent — morally in- 
nocent, of course. It is a very old and a 
much dscussed question, I am sure, but 
to a woman whose view for many years 
was bounded by convent walls it is in- 
tensely interesting. I have my own ideas 
and I warn you they are — definite." 

"What are they ?" 

She shook her head. "Yours first. 
Am I not right in thinking that you 
would apply reason rather than moral 
conviction to the settlement of such a 
question?" She was smiling but her 
earnestness was patent. 

He started involuntarily at the sudden- 
ness and facility with which she had laid 
a finger as it were upon a joint in his 
professional armour. But he assured her, 
"Very well, then, I will say that the Dis- 
trict Attorney does not know that an ac- 
cused person is guiltless.** 




"Technically is 'actually* with the Dis- 
trict Attorney." 

"So. So!" she pursed her lips prettily 
and her brow was wrinkled as she re- 
peated, almost to herself, "Yet the Dis- 
trict Attorney might know that the per- 
son was guilty?" 

He said yes before he perceived the 
trap into which he had been led. 

She laughed softly. "I ask your par- 
don for that. But you will forgive me. 
It is but the tiniest triumph, and, anyhow, 
you overwhelm me, I am sure, with a 
simple explanation of just what the Dis- 
trict Attorney does know when there is 
no guilt." 

He pulled himself out of the difficulty 
as well as he could, and soon the con- 
versation took a turn. 

But the quickness of Her retort was a 
draft upon his respect, and when next 
he saw his host of that evening he ques- 
tioned him. Miss Wainwright, he 
learned, was an American girl from a 
small town up the State who, after being 
educated at a convent, had gone abroad 
to study for the stage. For her own rea- 
sons she had abandoned that career, and 
now lived quietly and comfortably with 
her chaperone, Fraulein Glatz, once an 
opera singer of note. 

Perhaps her story had piqued Hardy's 
curiosity. At least a few days later he 
took advantage of her permission to call. 
He left her with an impression that the 
serious woman of their first meeting had 
been a pose. As her fingers moved 
among the tea cups on the table in her 
little drawing room, she conversed of 
the stage, the latest book and their fellow 
guests at the recent dinner. The most 
fugitive of frowns discouraged his tenta- 
tive reference to the conversation of their 
first meeting. 

As his visits were repeated it grew 
upon him that here was a woman whose 
inconsequential moments let down no bar- 
rier. She challenged him again and 
again, and her intellectual grasp made a 
sure weapon of verbal parry and retort. 
Soon he was content to accept her friend- 
ship as a relaxation from his professional 
labours which was no less a stimulus to 
his ambition. Yet he wondered at his 
admiration for her. The woman of in- 
tellect had never sugfpested herself to 
him as an ideal. A bachelor because he 
understood women and \\aA tvc^ vwS^iear 



tion to understand woman, he yielded in- 
sensibly to the charm of her presence, 
and on reflection was not able to persuade 
himself of danger therein. 

And then one afternoon the issue of 
their first meeting was sharply recalled to 
him. She referred to a paragraph she 
had read in an afternoon newspaper 
which censured a public official for the 
construction he had placed upon the 
definition of his duties. She asked him, 
"Is not this official responsibility to the 
law sometimes a matter of opinion ? Can 
you truthfully say, that it is not?" 

"Most certainly it is not," he affirmed. 

She affected a mien of terror. "So 
positive? Then from your own experi- 
ence — ?" 

"Yes, from my own experience — " he 
began, but she checked him with a chid- 
ing finger. "I was about to ask," she 
interposed, "whether you have ever yet — 
now pay attention, have yet had a case 
before you — as District Attorney — upon 
which you did not, sooner or later, form 
a definite personal opinion — ^a personal 
opinion, remember." 

"If I had doubts," he said a little heav- 
ily, conscious of a mental warning, "I 
usually discovered evidence which settled 
them for me." 

She nodded reluctantly. "But is evi- 
dence always conclusive?" 

After a moment he said "yes." "To 
my mind," he went on, "evidence always 
points to legal guilt, or to superior 
shrewdness, or — " he paused and then 
said slowly, "I will give you an instance. 
I had decided the case for myself some 
time ago. But, for one reason or an- 
other, I postponed action. Here it is — 
confidentially, of course. There is a 
man, now out on bail, charged with a 
considerable embezzlement. The legal 
evidence against him is damaging; yet 
I say to you T believe he is onlv technical- 
Iv giiiltv. He never took the money, 
though I could not prove it. Bring Park- 
ker — this man — ^before a grand jury, pre- 
sent the evidence, and he will go to court 
to be found eruiltv and sentenced. Ac- 
cording to the letter of the law this man 
is an embezzler." 

Yes?" she said. "Yes. And vou?^ 
I ?" he repeated. "That is the point 
Should I do mv sworn dutv to the coun- 
trv and have him punished by the law 
which he has broken ?" 



It was a half serious attempt to sound 
her reasoning when she was brought face 
to face with the fact. He made 3ie mis- 
take of suspecting that she would lose 
her poise. 

Her eyes were fixed upon the point of 
her slipper and her face was unmoved. 
"Perhaps I had imagined such a case," 
she said, "and, since you say it exists, it 
would occur to me at once to ask 
whether the persons from whom this man 
is said to have taken the money will in- 
sist on his prosecution. Do they know 
all the facts ?" 

"Yes, and I understand that they be- 
lieve in — ^his innocence — ^at least as far as 
his intent to do wrong goes. Individual- 
ly they are willing to make good the 
money loss. But they could not prove to 
the satisfaction of the court what they 
are ready to believe; and, besides, they 
have their own reasons for not wishing 
to bring it up in court. Parker's case is 
in my hands. As District Attorney it is 
my part to prove him guilty." 

"Your part, then," she rejoined quiz- 
zically, "is to be a smooth-running wheel 
in the machine called justice? It seems 
to me that brains are at a discount in 
such a role. Are they to have no repre- 
sentative, pray?" 

He flushed. "You flatter me," he said, 
shortly and would have said more, but 
she answered calmy. "I am serious, my 

His resentment suddenly appeared to 
him a small thing, and he asked her to 
forgive him, and she went on, "Some 
would say that it is the office of the Dis- 
trict Attorney to establish guilt, irrespec- 
tive of fact. But you do not agree to 

No," he replied. 

Then what is left ? The law — a code 
framed upon precedent, quoted by some 
one whose experience may and may not 
have been as large as your own an4 
whose judgment was no less fallible. 
Are you willing to submit your action to 
this? Are you willing to exercise your 
powers only to follow a trail? The in- 
stinct of the animal would serve that pur- 
pose as well." 

"I believe that I have been called 'The 
Bloodhound' by some of the picturesque 
gentlemen who write for the news- 
papers,'' he remarked, and smiled a little 





"They have not dared !" she exclaimed. 
Incredulity was in her face, resentment 
in the grasp of the fingers that for a mo- 
ment drew taut the slender gold chain 
with which they had been playing. 

"That it was because you were afraid 
of what they would say that you re- 
mained — " 

"A bloodhound?" he suggested with 
a twist of the lips. 

"You must not use that word. Please, 
remember I have forbidden it," she com- 
manded with an air of possession. "Of 
course, you are not afraid of them. Only, 
I wish you would not let them think that 
you are." 

"Why?" He was regarding her 

"Oh! for — reasons. Suppose we say 
because I have an ideal, and — flattered 
myself." Her eyes were turned upon a 
pillow of the sofa which she was smooth- 
ing, there was a fine colour in her cheeks. 
A hint of submission in the bend of her 
head quickened his pulses afresh. "And 
you flattered — me," he said. "I don't 
wish to prove false to an ideal of yours," 
he continued. "But, perhaps when a man 
has gone through what I have gone 
through he has few ideals left — only am- 

She looked up, and now their eyes met 
in level gaze. She said, "Help me not 
to lose my ideals anyhow." 

"I would — " he began, and finished, 
" — would not disappoint you, if it lay 
within my power. You are doubting me 
because I hesitate to break away from the 
line of conduct along which I have been 
able to force myself forward. Is that 
fair? I would not be where I am, if I 
had deviated." 

"You have won your way to a place 
where you have the right to choose your 
path," she returned. "The ideal man 
strikes out as his heart bids him." 

"If I were that man," he began, and 
again halted. She had been resting on 
her elbows, her fingers interlaced beneath 
her chin and suddenly she dropped her 
arms, and cried out. "No, no! Wait. 
I — you don't understand." 

"I understand that I would do all that 
you ask," he answered gravely. 

For a moment he wondered at the 
struggle which went on in her face. Her 
eyes were turned away, but something 
tugged at her lips until they drew in a 




line of pain. Then they were resolute, 
and she started to rise, and as quickly 
dropped down among the cushions again, 
and said, "You would do what I asked? 
Because I asked you?" 

"I have just told you." 

"Then, we must plan. Yes, plan." 

'But what for ?" he asked. 

'For this — ^test of your — obedience.*' 

'Oh, of course," he laughed. "Well, 
what is it to be ? You will not find it easy 
to set a satisfactory task." 

"It will not be difficult for— w^," she 

The self-contained, independent pose 
which he had come to know so well had 
given place to an air of confidential 
frankness — ^almost of tenderness in which 
he seemed to stand by her side, as it 
were in counsel against himself. 

"Yes, yes," he responded. "And how 
shall we go about this plot ?" 

"I must think it out. Now do not dis- 
turb me," she commanded, and then there 
was silence until she said abruptly, "I 
have it! How do you have a man re- 
leased who has been held in bail — ^by a 
magistrate ? For examination of the case 
by the Grand Jury, I mean? No legal 
quibbling now," as she saw his eyes 
darken. "Tell me plainly. I will detect 
any fabrication. And, remember, this is 
our plan." 

"You are thinking of the Parker 
case?" he said. 

"Of course. Of what else? Is that 
not the case upon which we made our 
point — about my ideal's duty? The ideal 
man is honest to himself first of all. But 
is he honest to himself if he allows any 
one to suffer whom he knows is innocent 
and can save? You are not honest to 
yourself if you allow this man Parker 
to be punished for what vou have said 
yourself he is not guilty of doing, except 
in name. He must have those who love 
him — 2L mother, a sister; perhaps — some 
other woman loves him. What would 
vou sav to her if she was to ask you to 
help him?" 

"But don't you see that I have no 
choice with my legal duty plain before 

For an instant her face paled and her 
eyes flashed upon him — it may have been 
only reproach. Then her fingers fell 
upon his coat sleeve, and she was ^a^fc^.^ 
softly, "Ah, ttt^ iT\«cvdi,Vcw ^"saJL^cscoas^^ 



heart would ache. She would never com- 
prehend, I fear. If I would come to you 
with such a plea — " 

"But you would not," he objected. 
^^You would understand. It is because 
you understand me — " 

"That I ask you to be true to the best 
that is in you. Yes, true to my ideal." 

His hand closed over the one on his 
sleeve and, for an instant, pressed the 
slender fingers before they were with- 
drawn. He said in a low voice, "You 
make it very hard to disappoint you when 
you make this case your own." 

"Not mine, but ours/' she corrected. 
"We will work it out together, and we 
will let no one else interfere. We will 
think of none but— ourselves. But our 
enemies will learn from what we do that 
we mean to run our office in our own 
way. Is it not so ?" 

Leaning forward, his face burning, his 
hands clasped, he did not answer; and 
she nodded and repeated her question, 
"Then, tell me. How are we — ^the Dis- 
trict Attorney — ^to have this man re- 
leased? The process?" 

"You are afraid I will back down if 
you wait," he charged. "But I will ex- 
plain what you ask. First of all, the Dis- 
trict Attorney has in his possession an 
indictment against Parker which filled in 
by him becomes a legal document." 

"We've arranged about that," she re- 
turned. "You are to write 'Nol. Pros. * 
on the back of the indictment, sign it and 
send it to a judge. That is not exactly 
the formal way of doing it — ^to quote con- 
fidentially the District Attorney — ^but it 
comes within the prerogatives of the of- 
fice. Am I not right ?" 

"Yes." Then his face grew more 
grave. "But an embezzlement is a seri- 
ous thing to treat so summarily. There 
would be — ^talk, if one of my enemies 
were to hear of it." 

"We are dealing with a false charge of 
embezzlement, not the crimjc itself," she 
responded. "Moreover, we are not afraid 
of what they sav, remember. We will 
send for the indictment at once. Your 
office is open ? Yes ? Then we will write 
an order to your clerk to deliver it to the 

She was on her feet as she spoke, and 
beside a mahofifanv desk, nulling: out un- 
marked writing paper and testing a pen 
o/i the blotter. "You men take up such 

a lot bf room when you write that I sup- 
pose my desk will be hopelessly small/' 
she said to him over her shoulder. "But, 
understand you, it is not every one who 
would be allowed to use it. Keep your 
eyes strictly on your work; this is my 
holy of holies. I am not willing to sur- 
render its secrets yet, even to— you." 

He took the chair she placed for him. 
But, as he picked up the pen and poised 
it over the paper, a renewed sense of the 
gravity of her proposal made him half 
turn. He was about to say he must think 
it over. Then he felt that she was lean- 
ing over the back of the chair, with her 
head close to his. His resolution weak- 

"I am waiting," she said. "I am anx- 
ious to see how the District Attorney 
writes — ^professionally. It is very differ- 
ent from this?" In an instant she had 
drawn a letter from her bosom, and held 
it before him. He recognized it as one 
of his notes to her, her movement told 
him from where she had taken it. His 
pen touched the paper. He had written 
the order to his assistant, slipped it into 
an envelope, sealed and addressed it, al- 
most before he was conscious of the act. 

A minute later she delivered the en- 
velope to a messenger at the door. Then 
she turned to him. 

"Now, I will reward you!" she cried 
gaily. She seated herself at the piano. 
Good music affected him as did good 
wine ; it bore him out of his sterner self 
and soothed him. Half an hour passed, 
and he had thought only of her, when 
she ran to the door, and brought to him 
an official envelope. It bore his name. 
"May I?" she said, inserting the tip of 
one finger beneath the flap of the en- 

"Yes," he answered, satisfied to watch 
her. She sat down beside him, and, un- 
folding the enclosure, read it through. 

When she looked up from the indict- 
ment she saw about his mouth those lines 
of decision which she most feared. 
"Prisoner!" she cried quickly, and rose, 
her head thrown back, one hand resting 
on the table by her side, the other ex- 
tended toward him in gesture of ccrni- 
mand. "Prisoner, stand up to receive 
your sentence!" 

Instinct, habit, training fought against 
the thralldom of her presence and vcrice. 
But she had pronounced the words most 



potent to deepen the spell upon him, and 
he got up, exulting in his obedience, and 
took his former seat at the desk. She 
spread the paper upon the desk, and 
placed the pen in his hand, closing his 
fingers around it with a lingering pres- 

"The District Attorney will fill in the 
indictment with the necessary informa- 
tion upon the case," she said — she 
pointed to the document before him, and 
he wrote down the legal facts in the case 
of Parker. Then he looked up. She was 
smiling, yet there was ^ light in the 
depths of her eyes that made him start to 
rise, eagerness in his. 

But she pressed him down with a hand 
on his shoulder. "There is a man — ^my 
ideal — he has not finished his part," she 
reminded him. "I am waiting." 

He folded the paper, and across the 
back of it wrote the name and number of 
the case, and, below this, the usual order 
made by the court in entering a "Nolle 
Prosequi" for the dismissal of the case. 
He signed it "Richard Hardy — ^District 
Attorney"; and, with the last stroke of 
the pen, sprang to his feet. 

She snatched away the paper from the 
desk, and retreated so swiftly that he 
found the table between them before he 
could reach her. "That is not fair !" she 

"What have I not done which you 
wished ?" he cried. 

She met his gaze unswervingly; and 
then it came to him that he loved her for 
herself, for something apart from her 
beauty and the allurement of her manner. 
"Forgive me," he begged, and moved 
around the table, and tried to take her 
hand. But she gave a great start, and 
slipped away from him. He could not 
comprehend the fright in her face; fear 
had seemed a stranger to her before, and 
for a moment he wondered if it could be 
that she mistrusted him. So, puzzled and 
hurt, his pride came to his rescue, and 
he said gravely, "I am sorry for what- 
ever I have done to oflFend you. Give 
me the indictment, I will deliver it my- 
self. I will come again. May I? To 
tell vou that — we — ^have succeeded?*' 

"Yes," she answered. Her voice was 
so low that he hardly distinguished the 
word. She was not looking at him. And 
so he left her. 

A week later he saw the indictment 
countersigned by the presiding judge in 
court, and duly recorded. TTie case 
against Henry Parker was legally as if 
it had never been. But he did not go at 
once to her. He had made one mistake 
by pressing his claim prematurely; he 
trusted that what he had done for her 
would plead his cause. He knew that she 
knew that it was love for her, not con- 
viction of the truth of what she declared 
which had made him do this. 

Two days after the quashing of the 
indictment, reaching his office about 
noon, he found on his desk a letter from 
her. Its opening words made his heart 
leap. He pressed it to his lips before he 
read its closing lines. Then the hand 
holding the letter dropped and he was 
staring at the wall, seeing nothing. 

"And now," she wrote, "it must be 
good-bye — and for always. I am going 
away — ^at once. I cannot explain what I 
have done. I hope that you may never 
understand it — all. If you ever do un- 
derstand it, try to forgive a woman 
whose excuse is that she misjudged you, 
and did not realize the wrong she did 
until it was too late to undo it." 

At first he thought this was a jest. He 
read it again and again. But in the light 
of the final lines he was only made more 
sure that this was her farewell to him. 
He tried to explain to himself in a dull 
way, and was confounded by a lack of 
motive. He lay back in his chair, the 
letter loose in his hand. And then, on 
his I desk addressed to him he noticed a 
small box. He picked it up with shaking 
fingers and tore away its wrappings. A 
slip of paper lay on top. On it he read : 

"From one you saved because you are 
a man. And from another who will owe 
to you all that she calls happiness. 

"Henry Parker." 

On a bed of cotton wool in the box 
rested a plain gold locket, worn and 
dulled. Within it, facing a tiny photo- 
graph of a man whom he recognized as 
Parker, was the portrait of a woman — a 
woman with smiling mouth and serene 
eyes. It seemed to him that she was say- 
ing, '^Prisoner, stand up to receive your 

Churchill Williams. 




IN one respect the Memoirs of M. de 
Blowits — Henri-Georges-Stephan- 
Adolphe de Blowitz — remind us of 
the eighteenth-century novel of ad- 
venture. Every now and then in 
Humphrey Clinker or Tom Jones or GU 
Bias the main story of the hero's exploits 
is interrupted for a time, the hero politely 
effaces himself, while the mysterious 
stranger with whom he has been draining 
a bottle of wine or a tankard of ale in the 
tap-room of the wayside inn, regales the 
reader to the extent of two or three chap- 
ters with the story of his unhappy life. 
And so it is with M. de Blowitz. Every 
now and then he will pause in his narra- 
tion of the march of great events and in- 
troduce a veiled lady whose career has 
been connected with the court intrigues 
of some European capital. These digres- 
sions enable him to applaud himself en- 
thusiastically. He likes to tell how he 
came to the lady's assistance when she 
was in dire need and how much she o^ed 
to his influence with the great men of 
Europe, At every turn these Memoirs 
show him to be the man that he was — 
inordinately vain, at times even childishly 
so, swelled almost to bursting with the 
sense of his own importance, considering 
himself not as a mere journalist but as an 
arbiter in the affairs of nations. 

To a certain extent what he wishes you 
to believe about himself is true. He did 
accomplish great things in journalism, 
and he undoubtedly had the ears of some 
of the most influential statesmen and 
diplomats of his time. But this, we think, 
was less due to his personality, which 
must have been far from agreeable, or to 
his honesty on which he insists so much, 
than to the fact that the newspaper that 
he served was from 1870 until the publi- 
cation of the fraudulent Pigott letters iri 
1887, the most powerful and the best 
credited newspaper in the world. Those 
were the glorious years in the history of 

^Memoirs of M. de Blowits. New York: 
Messrs. Doubleday, Page and Company. 

the London Times. Under the editorship 
of John Delane the honesty and reliability 
of its columns were unquestioned. Eng- 
land was then standing aloof from G>nti- 
nental affairs, and the pages of the Times 
offered a Continental statesman a medium 
such as he could not find in the press of 
his own country. That, we think, is the 
reason that such men as Thiers, Bis- 
marck, Gambetta, and the Duke Dccazes, 
were ready to give de Blowitz the inter- 
views they refused other journalists and 
enabled him to fill his Memoirs with so 
much of the hitherto unwritten history of 
his time. 

While, as a journalist, de Blowitz^s 
greatest feat was the publication in 1878 
of the Treaty of Berlin before it had been 
signed, his own explanation of how he se- 
cured this famous "beat" does not tend 
to enhance the achievement, and the chap- 
ter describing it is not equal for dramatic 
reading to that dealing with the French 
war scare of 1875. De Blowitz's account 
of this historical episode shows the Ger- 
man nation, and above all the Emperor 
and Von Moltke in an unenviable light. 
Indeed, we are told that had not Bis- 
marck, to his lasting credit, disclosed to 
the civilized world through the columns 
of the London Times the plans of the 
military party at Berlin, the history of 
Germany would have been stained with 
the record of the most brutal and unpro- 
voked attack upon a weakened nation of 
modem times. In 1875 when Marshal Mac- 
Mahon was President and the Duke De- 
cazes was the French Minister of Foreign 
Affairs the National Assembly voted Ac 
creation of the Fourth Battalion, an act 
which was regarded with apprehension 
in Germany. In that country Bismarck 
had almost absolute freedom in all ques- 
tions not pertaining to the army, but the 
Emperor with Moltke by his side had 
shown that he was resolved to be the sole 
master in military matters. Therefore, it 
was Moltke who was consulted as to 
German action in regard to the creation 
of the famous Fourth Battalion. Moltke's 
advice was for an immediate war upoii 
France. Without warning, without 



provocation, the German armies were to 
invade France, before that country had 
time to prepare herself for the conflict, 
crush instantly all opposition, press on to 
Paris, invest the capital, and take up a 
position on the plateau of Avron, where 
they could overlook Paris and if neces- 
sary destroy it. Then Germany would dic- 
tate a treaty reducing France to absolute 
subjection for years. Picardy and Cham- 
pagne would go the way that Alsace and 
Lorraine had gone in 1871. The treaty 
would insist upon a permanently reduced 
French army, impose a war indemnity of 
10,000,000 (10 milliards) of francs, pay- 
able in twenty annuities, without any 
clause allowing payment to be made in 
advance, with annual interest at five per 
cent. German garrisons would be kept 
in all the principal French towns until 
the full amount should have been paid. 

Moltke and the military party at Berlin 
saw nothing infamous in this colossal 
scheme of aggression. They regarded 
with anxiety the marvellous swiftness 
with which the French were carrying on 
the reorganisation of their army and they 
argued that war was inevitable and that 
it should be waged before France was 
sufficiently on her feet to make the issue 
of the struggle doubtful. Bismarck, on 
the other hand, according to de Blowitz, 
believed that an attack so unprovoked 
would be a weal of dishonour across the 
face of Germany in the pages of history. 
According to de Blowitz had he had his 
way in 1871 the terms of peace would 
have been much less severe. A good part 
of Alsace and Lorraine and the cities of 
Metz and Belfort (the latter city was 
finally ceded to France upon the payment 
of an additional billion francs) would 
have remained with France. But he had 
been overruled then, and in 1875 he knew 
that nothing that he could say would have 
influence against the plans of the military 
party. The only way that the war could 
be averted was by apprising the civilised 
world of the imminence of the danger. 
To this end he had the full account of the 
plans of the German military party, and 
conclusive supporting proof conveyed to 
the French Minister of Foreign Affairs, 
who in turn communicated them to de 
Blowitz. Published in the London Times 
they roused the indignant protests of 
Christendom and Moltke was obliged to 
stay his hand. 

In the chapter on Diplomacy in Jour- 
nalism, de Blowitz tells of a dramatic in- 
cident which took place in the autumn of 
1875 when the Duke Decazes first learned 
that Lord Derby had bought two hundred 
thousand shares of Suez stock, giving 
England control of the canal. De Blow- 
itz was at the Minister's house watching 
him play a game of billiards when a sec- 
retary entered with a package of letters 
and telegrams. 

Opening the packet, the Duke began to 
read one of the telegrams. Suddenly he 
became red, then pale, and wiped his tem- 
ples, moist with sweat. Then, as if mad- 
dened, with an irresistible movement he 
took the billiard cue, which he had put 
down, struck it on the rim of the table, 
broke it across his knee, and threw the bits 
into the fire. The persons present, it may 
be imagined, were in a great state of mind. 

Suddenly approaching me, his teeth set 
with anger, he said: "Do you know what 
I have just heard? Derby has just bought 
200,000 Suez shares from Ismail, while 
every possible effort has been made to con- 
ceal from us, jiot only the negotiations, 
but even Ismail's intention of selling them. 

"It's an infamy! It's England putting 
her hand on the Isthmus of Suez, and my 
personal failure has in no way retarded the 
act. I authorize you to say what you have 
just seen. I even beg you to say it, and to 
add that Lord Derby will have to pay for 
that." And he added, half talking to him- 
self, ^'Yes, I swear that he shall pay for 
it!" He then quickly left the room, and I, 
too, went out. 

De Blowitz went home with the inten- 
tion of sending a report of what he had 
heard to his paper, but when there began 
to realise the danger of the situation and 
ended by destroying his notes. When he 
next met Decazes the latter thanked him 
warmly for his discretion and his sacri- 
fice of a journalistic success to a sense of 

Bismarck's protest against being held 
responsible for the severe terms imposed 
upon France after the struggle of 1870 
will not be very readily accepted against 
the testimony of historians who were in 
a position to know the facts. The inter- 
view which de Blowitz narrates took 
place in Berlin on July 2, 1878. They 
discussed the recent G>ngress and Euro- 
pean affairs in general, and finally began 
to talk of France. 

"France," said Bismarck, "is the only- 
country which does not hesitate to spend 
millions on its slightest caprices!" 



"Yes," I answered; "and yet it is a curi- 
ous phenomenon, when one takes into con- 
sideration the temperament of the French, 
to see that these people, who appear to be 
so thoughtless and so turbulent, should be 
the most economical people in the world, 
and that, in their country, saving is organ- 
ised in such a way that it has become a 
national theory." 

"Oh,* interrupted Prince Bismarck, turn- 
ing toward me, "that is only surprising to 
those who are in the habit of judging that 
country by Paris! But there is France and 
France, the French of Paris and the French 
of the provinces. The former are immense- 
ly vain and amusing, agreeable, wasteful, 
always ready to knock down the lamp- 
posts, have revolutions, and declare war. 
They have nothing to do with economy. 
The whole world takes money to them and 
they squander it. But at her side is the 
other France, the real France, that of the 
provinces and of the rural districts — the 
French who work and labour, who are 
steady and who economise, and who pay 
for all the giddy actions, all the follies of 
the other. When the former bring about 
a revolution, it is the latter who suffer; 
when the former declare war, it is the lat- 
ter who fight. And yet the French of the 
provinces love their native soil, and their 
greatest sacrifice is to tear themselves away 
from it in order to make their military 

"When I was in France, I was very 
much interested in the common soldiers, 
and I often chatted with them. They all 
of them had one great desire, and that was 
to finish their military service and return 
to their fields. 

"If one only listened to the French peas- 
ant, there would never be any war; and yet, 
when he does fight, he fights well. When 
he is beaten he is very much cast down, 
and when he is victorious he is delighted 
— there can be no doubt about it; but, con- 
queror or conquered, the one thing he sees 
clearly is that victory or defeat will bring 
the battle to a close and he will then be 
able to return home." 

The conversation then reverted to the 
Q)ngress. The Prince remarked rather 
severely : 

'The Peace of San Stefano was one of 
the most thoughtless actions of modern 
history. Ignatieff made a blunder which no 
true statesman would ever have committed. 
He took everything that he could get. 

When an enemy is vanquished, and one 
has one's foot on his neck, he can be 
made to give whatever one wants, but one 
must think of the consequences of the 
victory as well as the consequences of the 
defeat. We should not be where we now 
are if, in 1886, I had acted like Ignatieff, if 
I had taken territory from Austria. At 
that time every one was against me. I 
had said when we started: 'If we should 
be victorious I shall not annex any Aus- 
trian territory, for we must not remain 
enemies forever. In ten or twelve years' 
time we must be able to come to an 
understanding with her.' When we were 
victorious, every one wanted me to take 
territory from her. I held my own, though, 
and since then I have often had cause to 
congratulate myself that I did so." 

At these words I could not help looking 
the Prince in the face, and he at once read 
in my eyes the question that was on my 
lips, for without flinching he said: 

"I know what you mean; you are think- 
ing about the last war. But in 1871 I acted 
in the same way. At that time France was 
in our hands. Paris was conquered, the 
Commune was brewing, everything was 
disorganised; and if I had acted like Igna- 
tieff I should have demanded Picardy and 
Champagne. Now this never occurred to 
any one; and when I was urged to take 
Belfort and Metz I refused, saying, 'No, 
Belfort is in the hands of the French; it 
must remain theirs.' And even with re- 
gard to Metz, on seeing the despair of poor 
M. Thiers, I hesitated. But, as you know, 
at the conclusion of a campaign such as 
that was, one has to take into considera- 
tion the military element, and I was obliged 
to listen to Moltke, who kept repeating to 
me at every hour of the day, 'Metz in our 
hands, or in the hands of the French, means 
a difference of 100,000 men, more or less, 
in the army.' I could not impose upon my 
country the burden of putting 100,000 more 
men into active service at a given moment.** 

The chapters devoted to "Alva" and 
"A Life Struggle" add but little to the 
value of the book. They are introduced 
apparently for no other reason than to 
g^ve de Blowitz an opportunity to paint 
himself in very amiable colours. But 
apart from this the Memoirs of M. de 
Blowitz IS a work of some importance. 
Some may dispute its reliability: no one 
will deny its interest. 

Arthur Bartlett Maurice. 





IN Mr. White's book there is a chap- 
ter on "Lying Awake at Night," 
which is likely to surprise a good 
many of his readers and impress 
them all. As one who has come to him, 
not by any short cut, but by way of The 
Biased Trail and succeeding stories from 
the same hand, I wish that this chapter 
might fall under the eye of every person 
who has a sincere interest in American 
literature. It is the sort of thing which 
we have had little of and need very much. 
It is most significant in its immediate re- 
lation because it indicates that a writer 
who, from the first, has shown hiitiself 
uncommonly capable in the description 
of certain vigorous phases of activity is 
also able to express into his interpretation 
of life those messages of earth and water 
and air and sky which effect the con- 
sciousness of each of us yet which are so 
difficult to explain even to ourselves. In 
Mr. White's previous work there have 
been signs of this same fine comprehen- 
sion of nature's silent influences, but not 
before has he made so plain his s)rmpathy 
for the spiritual and emotional sensitive- 
ness to nature without some share of 
which no character, however potential 
otherwise, is wholly convincing. If you 
have ever been in the woods before dawn, 
and "have cast from you the drowsiness 
of dreams with the warm blanket" you 
will realise fully what Mr. White means 
by that "coolness, physical and spiritual" 
which "bathes you from head to foot. 
And once again, "all your senses will be 
keyed to the last vibration" as "the faint, 
searching woods-perfume of dampness, 
greets your nostrils." But, whether or 
not you may hark back to your own ex- 
perience for this, there will be borne in 
upon you by these few pages a convincing 
sense of that mysterious influence com- 
pounded of blurred distances and popu- 
lous silence and dim light — and what else 
besides? — which the wooded country 
breathes. Perhaps at this hour the forest 
more nearly yields its secret than at any 
other; and surely Mr. White has stood 
with every faculty alert. 

But, if in this chapter he has wholly 
surrendered himself to the immaterial 



• The Forest. By Stewart Edward White. 
New York: The Outlook Company. 

charm of the woods, on every page of his 
book he has confessed that for him the 
presence of the trees holds magic, that 
brooks are for more than the crossing, 
hillsides for more than the climbing, pools 
for more than the fishing. Not all his 
sage words to the man who would tramp 
and camp, even when they deal with the 
bare elements of tin cup and saucepan, 
beans and bacon, or the relative merits of 
coat and extra "sweater" convince us that 
the man who wrote them takes to the 
woods because of physical lust to cover 
many miles quickly, or to catch the big- 
gest fish, or even to explore whereof he 
may relate upon his return. We have 
had many spurious nature-books ; here is 
a nature-book of quite another kind. It 
is pervaded with the enthusiasm and un- 
derstanding of one whom experience has 
only drawn close to the heart of thing^. 
There will be few who read The Forest 
and not wish that they might sit down 
with its author beside a "friendship fire" 
and there hear him tell more. 

To look at the other side of the book — 
the side of the camp-kit and personal 
equipment for a tramp— it is not enough 
to say that it has its value. There was 
once a little pocket-volume by a veteran 
woodsman — rarely to be found now, I 
surmise — which, to the minds of many 
who knew, was the only thing of its sort ; 
but with these, as with many others who 
seek in Mr. White a counselor and guide, 
The Forest is likely hereafter to rank all 
other volumes on the subject of what to 
take with you and what not to take with 
you into the woods, and how, with a fair 
share of common sense to be most com- 
fortable and to experience the most that is 
worth experiencing while there. Before 
all else, in this respect, Mr. White is prac- 
tical. "The Science of Going Light," as 
he calls one of his earlier chapters, is the 
epitome of reasonableness combined with 
a knowledge of the importance to one on the 
tramp of t«ing free from every ounce of 
"duffle" not absolutely needed. His ad- 
vice is not offered to the camper who 
plans a two weeks' stay at one spot within 
shouting distance of a farm house, though 
even such may profit from what is here ; 
but for all others, despite its author's dis- 
claimer of attempt "to tell it all," it com- 
prehends in small space more than has 
been put into print anywhere else. So, 
too, with the delightfully personal chap- 



ter on "Making Camp/' and with those 
chapters not less reminiscent of personal 
experience, on "Open Water Canoe 
Travelling," on flies and other wood's 
pests, on hill-climbing and the usefulness 
and burden of the **pack," on walking 
through the woods — each a leaf from 
the note-book of one who would try 
to tell you, not how to make the woods 
fit your particular temper and circum- 
stance, which is out of the queston ; but 
how to start in so that you may gain the 
largest share of the ease and happiness and 
helpful exercise, and, mayhap, excite- 
ment which nature holds for all who 
come to her with open mind and hands. 

It is with open mind and hands that 
Mr. White himself yet comes to the for- 
est; with every day he learns more, not 
only of what the woods themselves have 
to teach, but also of the amazing 
woodcraft of those who are the forest's 
own children — the Indians. He has some 
things to say of the Ojibway which make 
up a brief but exceedingly suggestive 
contribution to our scanty information 
upon the character, habits and attain- 
ments of the Indians of the Canadian 
line and northward ; and he has blended 
these facts and observations with his 
personal narrative so that the figures in 
them become quite as much realities in 
their way as are his companion, Dick, and 
the writer himself, and Deuce, the dog 
friend of many miles of travel. Indeed it 
is the commingling of adventure, obser- 
vation, anecdote, and wood lore which 
gives this book its leisurely and intimate 
tone and constitutes one of its chief 
charms. Now, we are on the River, 
striving with paddle against the current 
below the Big Falls; now climbing the 
wild ascents of the Hudson Bay country 
in search of that mysterious lake whose 
shores the feet of but one other white 
man have pressed ; now struggling along 
some rutted and root-tangled trail on 
the look-out for a good place to pitch our 
tent; now with every muscle tense in a 
fight with white water in some rapids or 
stretch of open lake; or, with straining 
rod. battling against the big fish whose 
flaking flesh is to be one of the joys of 
the camp of the night to come. Verily, 
there are pages of delight here for the 
true fisherman; and the spice of under- 
brush, the dance of flecking shadows 
from the g^ant trees and the voices of 

wind, rapid, or trickling stream to de- 
light every lover of the woods. 

However, while it is for these things 
chiefly that The Forest will be read wide- 
ly, it is for something else — something 
almost indefinable— that the book is 
likely to live and be remembered. It has 
a quality which The Westerners had not, 
neither had Conjurors House, nor even 
The Biased Trail for all its fine robust- 
ness and abounding spirit. It is not less 
vital than those stories, and it has a deli- 
cacy and depth as well which they have 
not. To compare it in detail with what 
Mr. White has done before would not 
be reasonable. As fiction his previous 
books had their distinctive and positive 
merits. But The Forest should at once 
give its author a front place among the 
very few Americans who have written 
with sympathy, intelligence and sense of 
the woods and its people. 

Churchill Williams. 



NO race, or age even, has ever 
devised and brought to perfec- 
tion more than one scheme of 
education, if, indeed, there is 
more than one. So that if girls are not 
to receive the same education as their 
brothers, it goes without saying that they 
will receive an inferior education, in 
which domestic science, perhaps, is sub- 
stituted for the classics. Further, if the 
education of the two is to be identical it 
seems unnecessary to duplicate valuable 
apparatus and still more valuable instruc- 
tors. So that co-education has been the 
logical and, to some minds, mainly satis- 
factory outcome of the increasing demand 
of women for a college training. Now 
co-education has always had a hard fight,- 
from the days when Dr. Holmes wrote of 
the green at Cambridge : 

Pleasant place for boys to play 
Better keep your girls away, 

to the last pathetic appeal of Life for the 
old-time "illusions" as the best basis for 
matrimony, and the chief argument, aside 
from economy, of those in its favour has 
always been that it is the best because the 

•The Law of Life. By Anna McClure 
Shell. N«w York: D. Appleton & Co. 



most natural prq>aration for life, which 
is more than matrimony. 

The present novel, The Law of Life, 
deals with the problem of co-education 
from the point of view, it would seem, of 
the Faculty, and, if it is to be taken seri- 
ously, contains some rather staggering 
evidence against the system. The scene 
is laid at Hallworth University, which, in 
every outward detail, is Cornell to the 
life. Founded after the Civil War, by a 
self-made American citizen (self-made 
three times in fact) it is, as he wished, 
"an institution in which any person may 
receive instruction in any subject," and 
the gorge, the loop, the little town of 
Sparta (Ithaca) at the foot of the hill, the 
lake, the forest walk, the library, with its 
long rows of tables, the seminary rooms 
on a lower floor, the Museum of Casts, 
must thrill every Comellian's soul ; while 
no girl, we are sure, that has ever lived 
at Sage, can read Miss Ravenel's words : 
"The worst waiters we have at the Hall 
are students. The girls are always in 
trepidation lest the soup should be spilled 
over them" — with the memory of at 
least one ruined gown. But with ex- 
ternals the resemblance ceases, the people 
are not Cornell people. No stretch of the 
imagination could appropriate Dr. Hunt, 
who, though iron, was a scholar and a 
gentleman, or the Head of the Women's 
Hall, or, with the possible exception of 
Mrs. Joyce, the wife of the Faculty. Still, 
the author was under no bonds to make 
the people correspond with the places. 
A graver charge, however, is that the pic- 
ture she draws of life at a co-educational 
university seems essentially untrue. Boys 
and girls who go to college are too young 
and too healthy to be overmuch interested 
in each other. Indifference is the most 
characteristic feature of their attitude, 
not by any means confined, as underclass 
men suppose, to the boys. Besides they 
have come for a purpose, overmastering 
with some, strong enough with the ma- 
jority to make them subordinate every- 
thing else to the main business of study. 
But this book makes the college year an 
endless succession of receptions and 
dances and the whole object of life to 
have a good time. Another element of 
unreality in the picture is the preponder- 
ance of das ewige weibliche. The women 
are drawn with exquisite feeling, Barbara 
and the Emperor, who, as Waring says, is 

"many different kinds of a brick," with 
real dramatic power, but there are too 
many of them, they are the whole college, 
student body and faculty alike. 

Barbara Dale comes to Hallworth af- 
ter the death of her uncle, as the ward of 
Dr. Penfold, the absent-minded professor 
of mathematics, a man "conceived and 
born in numbers." At the end of her 
freshman year she accepts his offer of 
marriage, though he is twenty-five years 
her senior, because she pities his loneli- 
ness. She tries to understand, to make a 
place in her husband's house, to fill the 
emptiness of her days, but the only way 
of escape from her restlessness and ennui 
seems closed when her child is bom dead. 
The following year she goes into the so- 
cial life of the campus, at her husband's 
request and in charge of the Fellow in 
Mathematics, Richard Waring, a knight 
errant of chivalry in its truest sense. 
They had been much together ever since 
her coming to the university and now 
the intellectual liking developed slowly 
into the "love that is synonymous with 
pain." Barbara's pity for her husband 
makes it impossible for her to speak of 
divorce, he seems helpless as a child in 
her hands. The struggle is a bitter one, 
though it was foreordained that Barbara 
would win because of her unselfishness 
and sincerity and the clean record of her 
ancestors. Then is introduced, as the 
deus ex machina for their salvation, "the 
outrageous John Rebbor," whose gift of 
three millions to the university in return 
for a trusteeship is vigorously, even reck- 
lessly, opposed by Waring in his maga- 
zine, College and State, with the result 
that he is asked to resign. In life they 
could have conquered and both remained 
at Hallworth, but the world might have 
been incredulous and in a book the world 
must be convinced. 

The author has a knack of epigram- 
matic expression that is very grateful, the 
high-water mark in this respect being 
reached when she speaks of "the tragic 
virginity of those unmarried in the 
spirit," and to her credit be it said that 
she never uses it at the expense of women 
in general. Not all her women are high- 
minded and charitable, but they none of 
them sit up and make disparaging re- 
marks about the sex. The greatest trib- 
ute to her power, however, is the feeling 
of revolt with whkJv ot«. t^^^% ^^\«^^ 



and finally puts it down. "He that loveth 
his life shall lose it," has never been a 
popular doctrine. We want happiness for 
ourselves and our friends, and this book 
is an exposition of the "gospel of dying." 
But so is life and though we question the 
faithfulness of some of the book's details 
we must confess that it is true to this, the 
supreme law of life. 

Bessie du Bois. 



THERE can be no sounder theme 
for fiction than the present 
manifestation of an eternal hu- 
man problem. With any ap- 
proach to skillful treatment, the posses- 
sion of such a vertebrate subject places 
a story within the province of respectful 
criticism ; and while Alice Brown's Judg- 
ment is hardly more than a "novelette" 
in length, its dignity of purpose and 
grasp of a vital situation at once rank 
this slight volume among the slim array 
of serious contemporary novels. 

In the Middle Ages, the familiar as- 
pect of this same situation lay in the lov- 
ing relation between tender-hearted, sen- 
sitive wives and relentless, warrior hus- 
bands, men necessarily cruel, whether 
robber chieftains or patriots. To-day, 
the characteristic manifestation of this 
problem lies in the attitude of women, 
the delicately ethical products of modem 
philanthropic thought, towards husbands 
whom they love and who represent every 
principle which to them is most abhor- 
rent. The "Captain of Industry" whether 
merely engaged in legitimate, murderous 
struggle for supremacy, or even when 
tainted by the shadier sides of competi- 
tion, is frequently an affectionate and 
lavish personage in his own home. 

Mrs. Edith Wharton throws an ex- 
traordinary flash lififht on this dilemma 
in "The Quicksand," where a wife of ex- 
treme refinement and moral perception 
endures the lingering torment of her hus- 
band's connection with rank yellow 
journalism. Alice Brown's problem is 
even subtler. The wife. Helen Mark- 
ham, lives on a plane of mvstical exalta- 
tion, in a transport of spiritual expiation 
for the hurts inflicted by an honourable, 

* Judgment By Alice Brown. New York; 
Messrs. Harper & Brothers. 

unyielding man whom she never ceases 
to love most sincerely. 

The scene opens at a climax in family 
affairs, when the entire happiness of John 
Markham's son Kent, and of Kent's be- 
trothed, Rosamond, are in danger of 
shipwreck from the father's inability to 
temper justice with mercy. Helen the 
wife, step-mother to Kent, creature of 
feeling, vessel of tender emotion, resolves 
to avert disaster to the young couple and 
save her husband from the spiritual pun- 
ishment which must inevitably await 
him. It is a case of vulgar blackmail. 
Kent's youth under sharp provocation, 
has not been blameless. The girl is now 
dead, but certain compromising letters 
are held by her mother, a plain New Eng- 
land sewing woman of the type to whom 
"culture" is meat and drink. The whole 
complication is rapidly developed in an 
opening chapter which immediately 
strikes a high pitch of intensity and in- 
terest. Each character stands out, clear 
and indivdual, yet there is little descrip- 
tion, the narrative proceeding mainly by 
dialogue in which each personality is 
unmistakably preserved. The visionary, 
poetical step-mother, the clear-headed, ef- 
ficient step-daughter, herself a softened 
image of "old John Markham," Rosa- 
mond, a charming and spirited young girl 
untouched by dread or pain, and the grim 
figure of Jane Harding with her little 
packet of poisonous information— each of 
these utter sentences as unmistakably 
characteristic as if spoken by different 
actors on a visible stage. 

To follow the plot would be to mort- 
gage the reader's pleasure in the rapid 
action covering the next three days ; and 
this pleasure is great, not only from the . 
writer's sound observation of motive and 
character, but because she also possesses 
a most felicitous manner. There is fla- 
vour in her style, as well as pace; but 
an unusual power of vivid description 
never beguiles her into side-tracking the 
breathless forward movement. She has 
the faculty of ending each chapter with 
that peculiar quip which whets one*s 
relish for the next, and apparent ease of 
expression does not tempt her to n^Iect 
a real gift of condensation and elimina- 
tion. A leisurely reader may well regret 
that the author has not lingered over a 
theme susceptible of much more extended 
development. An impatient person, liv- 




ing at high pressure will appreciate a 
story which plunges without prelimi- 
naries into a whirlpool suddenly formed 
by the rushing together of many sepa- 
rate streams, and a narrative so swift 
as to imply the writer's confidence that 
her audience have sufficient intelligence 
to follow through certain short cuts, 
without wearily plodding around by the 
dusty highroad of detailed explanation. 
In reading Judgment (once for enjoy- 
ment, once for criticism) I marked two 
passages containing strained and af- 
fected use of words, thirty-seven to be 
quoted as examples of just and brilliant 
description. On reflection, it seems bet- 
ter not to quote at all, as those thirty- 
seven passages are not isolated epigrams, 
but form part of a complete unit, which 
can only suffer by dismemberment, and 
which as a whole is well worth an even- 
ing's attention from any adult reader. 

Mary Moss. 



IN one of the stories of the earlier 
series narrating the adventures of 
the Brigadier Etienne Gerard — the 
story which told how the Gascon 
Colonel of Hussars and his friend and 
enemy the English "Bart" joined forces 
to hunt down the infamous Marechal 
Millefleurs — ^the Brigadier discoursed 
philosophically about the comparative 
valour of different nations. Each coun- 
try liked to think and to boast that its 
own men possessed more bravery than 
the men of any other land. This, the 
Brigadier thought, was false and prejudi- 
cial. He had warred in many lands, he 
had fought against the Russians on the 
Beresina, the Austrians at Wagram, and 
the red-coated English in Portugal and 
Spain, and he felt himself qualified to say 
authoritatively that the men of all nations 
were equally brave. "Except" he added 
with delicious innocence, "that the 
French have rather more courage than 
the rest." If we knew nothing more than 
this of Colonel Etienne Gerard we should 
still have the foundations on which men- 
tally to build up a fine and amusing char- 
acter. We could readily deduce his val- 

*The Adventures of Gerard. By A. Cotian 
Doyle. New York: Messrs. McQure, Phillips 
& Company. 

our, his geniality, his pleasant vanity, his 
devotion to women, and his unfaltering 
belief in his own irresistibility where any 
one of the sex, young or old, was con- 
cerned. We should know him as a dash- 
ing and valiant soldier, a loyal friend and 
a humane enemy. 

To any one who has followed the work 
and methods of Conan Doyle carefully 
the preface of the present volume will be 
of interest. In it the author gives credit 
to the sources whence he drew the atmos- 
phere and spirit of his stories. He men- 
tions De Rocca's Memoires sur la guerre 
des Frangais en Espagne, Souvenirs 
Militaires du Colonel de Gonneville, Les 
Cahiers du Capitaine Coignet, Les Mi- 
moires du Sergeant Bourgoyne, the Jour- 
nal of Sergeant Fricasse, and the RecoU 
lections of de Fezenac and of de Seg^r 
and the Reminiscences of Marbot. To 
any one who has read Froissart in con- 
nection with The White Company, and 
Pugilistica and Boxiana in connection 
with Rodney Stone it will be perfectly ap- 
parent that if one were to go through the 
books to which Conan Doyle g^ves credit 
in the present volume, one would find at 
every turn familiar characters, bits of 
incident, scraps of conversation which 
have been incorporated in the two books 
dealing with the adventures of the 

The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes was 
in the general estimation not quite up to 
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 
and it is to be doubted that The Return of 
Sherlock Holmes will prove as good as 
either. On the other hand, the second 
book about Brigadier Gerard seems to be 
rather an improvement on the first. There 
are at least three stories of the new col- 
lection as entertaining as "How the 
Brigadier Slew the Brothers of Ajaccio," 
which was perhaps the best of the tales in 
the earlier book. On the other hand, the 
story of "How the Brigadier Triumphed 
in England" is much inferior to the ear- 
lier one treating of that country and 
showing how the Brigadier made his es- 
cape from Dartmoor Prison and under- 
took to chastise physically the famous 
Buxton Bruiser. 

In neither the old series nor the new is 
there a story told with more dash and va- 
riety of incident than that of "How the 
Brigadier Saved the Army.'* It told 
of a time when disasters ^^^^ IvSJccsh^g, 



tastes and potters away at self-improve- 
ment when he has nothing to improve, 
there is nothing in it so very dreadful. 
Literary people are forever judging the 
quality of the mind by the turn of expres- 
sion. Such sniffs at the banal remark 
and the empty sentence, such holy wrath 
at unproductive reading; the minute a 
poor wretch swallows an epic they look 
at his tongue for a sign. They expect 
things of people as readers that they do 
not expect of them as men. To most men 
the platitude is as natural as the bark to 
a dog and if feeling were measured by 
eloquence there would be no family ties. 
The dull man is not only entitled to his 
dull book but is privileged to talk of mas- 
terpieces in his dull way, and there is no 
more reason for railing at him in his re- 
lation to books than in his relation to his 
government, and his God, and his green 
grocer, and his friends, whom perhaps he 
bores most frightfully and who therefore 
have a greater grievance than true lit- 
erature can complain of. Taking people 
as they are, considering whom they mar- 
ry, and what they eat and how they live 
and what they say and how they say 
it, we must in common sense conclude 
that their literary taste is the least 
thing that is the matter with them. 
But literary-mindedness sees only the one 
thing: it would reduce the universe to a 
coterie, control the birthrate of this 
sphere and brped only Browning-readers. 
The question is not literary but biologi- 
cal. It is not a humane view of us ex- 
barbarians. Give us time and meanwhile 

thank Heaven that for the present we are 
at least tailless. 

Critics seem often ill at ease in the bad 
company of this every day world. They 
find no pleasure in what is merely crude 
and laughable and have only harsh words 
for a stage of development. You might as 
well lampoon a hemisphere. They do not 
sneer at children with their primers but 
for the average man with the average 
book they have no mercy. A wiser view 
was Sir Walter Scott's on the subject of 
rattles and gingerbread : — 

"1 have very little respect, said he, for the 
dear publicum whom I am doomed to amuM 
like Goody Trash jn Bartholomew's Fair with 
rattles and gingerbread ; and I should deal very 
uncandidly with those who read my confes- 
sions, were I to say I knew a public worth 
caring for or capable of distinguishing the 
nicer beauties of composition. They weigh 
good and evil by the pound. Get a good name 
and you may write trash. Get a bad one and 
you may write like Homer without pleasing 
a single reader." 

Their real grievance is with the num- 
ber of people there are in the world, but 
for our part we believe that were it not 
for the presence of the unwashed and the 
half-educated, the formless, queer and in- 
complete, the unreasonable and absurd, 
the infinite shapes of the delightful hu- 
man tadpole, the horizon would not wear 
so broad a grin. There must be some 
better tone for criticism than the wailing 
note of the horrified few. There is only 
one thing worse, which is that pot-valour 
of our self-conceit called "healthy optim- 
ism." F. M. Colby, 


IT is depressing to read some of the 
criticisms that have been called 
forth by Rudyard Kipling's latest 
volume, The Five Nations. Genius, 
in a world that is full of commonplace in- 
terests, commonplace human beings and 
commonplace cleverness, is so rare a 
thing as to make it wonderful that any 
one should fail to see and feel it when 
it blazes forth undimmed. Here is Rud- 
yard Kipling, unique among all living 
writers, following in the footsteps of no 
predecessor and defying imitation. The 
most careless stanza that he pens, the 
very diamond dust that at any time he 
chances to let fall, is caught up eagerly 
by all who speak or read our English 
tongue, and in the space of a single day it 
is known throughout the four quarters of 
the globe. No other poet in his own life- 
time ever had whole nations for his 
audience; and no other poet in modern 
days ever struck so unerringly a respon- 
sive chord in men and women who in 
all else are separated and indifferent to 
one another. For Kipling touches and 
astonishes and thrills alike the plain man 
in the street, the scholar in his study, the 
rough, illiterate soldier and the over- 
cultivated aesthete. The magic that can 
do this thing and that can do it not mere- 
ly once or twice, but whenever the magi- 
cian wills it, is not dependent upon tricks 
of phrasing, or cunning touches of tech- 
nique. It is the spirit of poetry itself, 
and the man who has the secret of it is 
a poet not for his contemporaries only, 
nor for the hour and the day alone, but 
for humanity and for all time. 

Yet there are minds so little as to be 
quite unaware of this. They can only 
feel a sense of irritation and disturbance 
because something has happened which 
transcends their ordinary experience, 
which is greater than conventionality and 
superbly defiant of those rules which dul- 
lards have laid down for other dullards. 
Hence we find a few pedantic souls using 
this splendid achievement of a true world- 

•The Five Nations. By Rudyard Kip- 
ling. New York: Doubleday, Page and 

poet simply as a background against 
which to display their own surpassing 

To them, Rudyard Kipling is little 
more than a literary charlatan who 
has for the time secured a hearing by the 
eccentricity of his manner and the au- 
dacity of his diction. Some of his poems, 
they say, are comic, though lamentably 
coarse ; others are filled with unreasoning 
prejudice, with arrogance and scorn. Mr. 
Kipling has no self-restraint. He is a 
loud-voiced person. If he denounces, he 
denounces sweepingly. He does not bal- 
ance and refine and draw distinctions. 
He will aim a striking phrase at an entire 
nation. Moreover, he is so contempo- 
raneous! Right upon the heels of an 
event comes the poem which records his 
own impressions of that event. He does 
not stop to think it over. He resembles 
the leader-writer for a newspaper, and 
what is worst of all, he is imperialistic in 
his feeling. Therefore, let us call him 
**the daily Kipling" and agree to think of 
him as just a brilliant journalist who 
chooses to write in verse instead of prose. 

Here, indeed, is a ponderous indict- 
ment. What sort of a man would he be 
who should fulfil the conception which 
these persons entertain of a genuine poet ? 
Probably a harmless, well-regulated, 
mouse-like creature, such as Mr. Alfred 
Austin, one whose processes are as quiet 
and methodical as those of a conscientious 
drug-clerk. When such a one decides 
that some contemporaneous theme is 
worthy of his notice, he thinks it over in 
a careful, systematic way and then sits 
down before his desk, with a pair of car- 
pet-slippers on his feet, a rhyming dic- 
tionary at his elbow, and with some tea 
and toast beside him ; and then he meas- 
ures out his lines and fills them in with 
carefully assorted words, considering at 
times a little variation in the caesura, or 
a slight elision which will give the verse 
an air of pleasant spontaneity. After 
this, he polishes the whole, and touches 
up his adjectives, and at the end of sev- 
eral moref days he has turned out ^ ^c^^secv 
which is a. ^«iftcX. tmAA cA ^^Rwrostw ^sA. 



of dullness. It will hurt nobody's feel- 
ings. It will shock no virtuous old lady. 
It is commendable, in the sense that a 
dish of tripe is commendable. It is good 
for those who like that sort of thing. 

But if such must be the norm and 
standard of a poet, then we shall cheer- 
fully admit that Rudyard Kipling has no 
title to the name. For he writes while 
the impression of his theme is still strong 
upon him, and fresh and vivid, while his 
heart still leaps with the emotion of the 
moment, while the thoughts evoked by it 
are still burning in his brain. His feel- 
ing finds swift utterance in words that 
sting and tingle with the passion which 
has prompted them ; and his language re- 
sponds instinctively to his mood, phrasing 
it so unerringly as to make the reader in 
his turn glow and stir under the spell 
which feeling and imagination have cast 
upon him. Does this resemble leader- 
writing for a newspaper? If so, then all 
the great lyric poets of antiquity were 
such as Kipling is, and modern poets 
have reached the supreme height of their 
achievement only when they wrote in 
such a way this. And they have done it 
very rarely. Only once in Tennyson's 
whole lifetime was it given him to find 
the theme and the inspiration both in a 
single moment, and that was when he 
struck off at a white heat the rough, but 
magnificent and immortal lines which 
will make the wild charge of the British 
horsemen at Balaklava live beside the 
heroism of Leonidas and the glorious 
death of Winkelried. This poem of Ten- 
nyson is not the greatest monument to 
his fame ; yet it is the one lyrical outburst 
by which he stirred the hearts of the 
whole Anglo-Saxon world, and indeed, 
of all to whom unshaken courage and the 
scorn of death appeal. Tennyson at- 
tained this only once, while Kipling has 
attained it many times ; and he has done 
so, precisely because he does not wait, 
but lets his mood completely master him 
— heart and brain and soul all swept by 
one great dominating impulse. Kipling, 
indeed, so far from being modern and 
mechanical, represents in reality a rever- 
sion to the primitive type of poet — the 
bard, the skald, the rhapsode — who sang 
when the echoes of the battle had scarce- 
ly died away and when the exulting 
shouts which greeted some heroic 3eed 
were still sounding in his eBLTS. 

And most remarkable of all, perhaps, is 
the range and infinite variety of his lan- 
guage. Whether it be the crude speech 
of the untaught soldier in his barrack, or 
the rapid, crackling, resonant rush of 
modern phrase and sharp colloquialism, 
or whether it be lofty and majestic dic- 
tion coloured with something of the Ori- 
ental imagery of the Hebrew prophets, it 
is all the same in being absolutely perfect 
and inevitable, reaching its mark without 
an effort and with never a mistake. 
Pathos, humour, exultation and indig- 
nant wrath, or reverence, tenderness, 
haughtiness and contempt — the whole 
gamut of the emotions, in fact, is made to 
sound under the touch of this extraordi- 
nary man who uses with swift mastery 
whatever medium he prefers; so that 
some of his most wonderful effects are 
produced in material which the conven- 
tional poet would regard as hopeless. 
Long ago I roughly divided the whole 
human race into two classes. To the first 
belong those who feel in Mandalay, run- 
ning through all the common soldier's 
unlettered speech, expressive and yet at 
times grotesque, the wonder of the East, 
its fascination, its perfume and melody 
and colour, and the mystery of its love 
which can move even the coarse-grained 
unromantic British infantryman to a 
pathos that is infinitely real. To the 
other class, belong those men and women 
of whatever rank or station who read 
those lines and grin and snigger over 
them in the belief that Mandalay is a 
comic poem. The former class comprises 
the Enlightened. The other class is made 
up of those who (perhaps for their ances- 
tral sins) are fated to mumble and gibber 
and squeak in the fogs of philistinism for- 
ever and ever. 

As to the book before us — The Five 
Nations — nearly all of its poems are well 
known, and many of their lines have 
passed into the common speech as surely 
as have some of the most famous lines of 
Shakespeare. Those poems which are 
new relate in the main to South Africa, 
and these are perhaps the least memor- 
able of the whole collection. But "The 
Bell Buoy'' and "White Horses" and 
"The Feet of the Young Men" and "The 
Truce of the Bear" and "The White 
Man's Burden" and of course "The Re- 
cessional" already belong: to the litera- 
ture which lives not only between the 



covers of books but in the throbbing 
hearts of men. And even the less notable 
of these poems — such as "The Islanders" 
— contain lines which no one but Kipling 
could have .written, as for instance these : 

So ye shall bide sure-guarded when the 

restless lightnings wake 
In the womb of the blotting war-cloud, and 

the pallid nations quake. 
So, at the haggard trumpets, instant your 

soul shall leap 
Forthright, accoutred, accepting — alert from 

the wells of sleep. 
So at the threat ye shall summon — so at 

the need ye shall send 
Men, not children nor servants, tempered 

and taught to the end; 
Cleansed of servile panic, slow to dread or 

Humble because of knowledge, mighty by 


Or these (in quite another vein) from 
Piet" : 


I do not love my Empire's foes. 

Nor call *em angels; still, 
What is the sense of 'atin' those 

'Oom you are paid to kill? 
So, barrin' all that foreign lot 
Which only joined for spite. 
Myself, I'd just as soon as not 
Respect the man I fight. 
Ah there, Piet! — 'is trousies to 'is kneesi 
'Is coat-tails lyin' level in the bullet- 
sprinkled breeze; 
'E does not lose 'is rifle an' 'e does not 

lose 'is seat, 
I've known a lot o' people ride a dam' 
sight worse than Piet! 

And these from "The Sea and The 
Hills" : 

Who hath desired the Sea? — the sight of 

salt water unbounded — 
The heave and the halt and the hurl and 

the crash of the comber wind-hounded? 
The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grey, 

foamless, enormous, and growing — 
Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the 

crazy-eyed hurricane blowing — 
His Sea is no showing the same — his Sea 

and the same 'neath each showing — 
His Sea as she slackens or thrills? 
So and no otherwise — so and no otherwise, 

hillmen desire their Hills! 

Who cares whether Kipling is right or 
wrong in his opinions, or whether he is 
just or unjust in his prejudices, or wheth- 
er his loves and his hates are reasonable, 
or whether he is an imperialist? What 
have these things to do with our judg- 
ment of his poetry? Let the little twit- 
tering, cheeping, dust-dried pedants of 
criticism hug such considerations to their 
shrivelled hearts. What the whole world 
recognises is the intensity of the feeling, 
the force and surge and passion and 
splendour of one who feels to the very 
depths of his heart and who voices what 
he feels as no other living man can do. 
And that is why he is a poet of the poets, 
a poet of life and action and daring and 
achievement, one who has no rival, and 
who stands alone in that supremacy 
which he has so superbly conquered for 

Harry Thurston Peck. 



THERE is a popular belief that 
the distinction between the 
novel and the short story is 
something peculiarly subtle and 
recondite — 2l sort of higher law which 
authors transgress at their peril, and 
which decrees that certain plots shall be 
treated only in the three-volume form 
and certain others compressed within the 
compass of a score of pages. And the 
fact that we all have met with instances 
of such transgression — ^novels so attenu- 

ated that they are obviously nothing more 
than short stories in disguise; short 
stories so overcrowded with detail that 
the author has plainly squandered mate- 
rial for a more sustained effort — gives a 
specious colour to the theory. Just what 
this distinction is, has never been satis- 
factorily stated. It is certainly not a 
question of simplicity of plot. Every re- 
viewer knows that it is often harder to 

*Falk. By Joseph Conrad. New Yotrkv 
McQure, Phillies ajv4 Oscav^Twi. . . 



give a brief and adequate summary of a 
magazine story than of a volume by Zola. 
Nor is it a question of space or time or 
the number of characters. A story may 
be limited to one man and one woman ; it 
may be confined within the walls of a 
single house or room ; it may begin and 
end within the period of a day and night ; 
and none the less be a novel. And another 
may present a crowded stage, with the ac- 
tion stretching over months and years, 
and the scene shifting back and forth be- 
tween two continents — and yet be noth- 
ing more nor less than a short story. Yet 
of course it must be granted that in a cer- 
tain class of cases, at the two extremes, 
space and time do enter in as factors. A 
story that records a family's annals unto 
the third and fourth generation naturally 
requires more pages thafi the episode of 
an hour, just as a panorama of a Roman 
triumph requires more square feet of sur- 
face than a miniature portrait. No one 
would think of expanding Poe's De- 
scent into the Maelstrom into the dimen- 
sions of a novel, or of compressing the 
Rougon-Macquart Series, or any part of 
it, within the limits of a magazine article. 
But within these extremes, it is safe to 
say that a larger proportion of the plots 
of successful novels and short stories owe 
their actual length not to any sense of the 
inherent fitness of things, but to the char- 
acteristic mood and point of view of the 
individual author. The French definition 
of fiction as life seen through the medium 
of a temperament applies equally well to 
the long story and the short. One writer 
sees life in simple, elemental terms, and 
reproduces it with a few clear, definite 
pen-strokes, of etching-like simplicity 
and monochrome. Another writer, look- 
ing upon the same scenes, is not satisfied 
until he becomes a part of them himself, 
until he touches elbows, with the jostling 
throngs, the clashing instincts, the noise 
and clamour that go to make up work-a- 
day humanity — and the hours of the day 
seem all too short, in which to crowd his 

♦ A Deal in Wheat. By Frank Norris. New 
York: Doubleday, Page and Company. • 

♦ The Edge of Things. By Elia W. Pcattie. 
New York: Fleming H. Revcll Company. 

*Tomorrozv^s Tangle. By Geraldine Bonner. 
Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 

♦ The House on the Sands. By Charles Mar- 
riott. New York: John Lane. 

*A Sequence in Hearts. By Mary Moss. 
PhiladelphisL : J, B. Lippineott Company. 

multitude of details into a single pic- 
ture. War, for instance, and its lessons, 
may be the subject of the picture, and he 
may choose, as Browning did in The Day 
We French Stormed Ratisbon, to take 
his stand a mile or two away, with the 
armies in the distance moving like single 
units, human pawns in the big game of 
nations, and in the foreground one or two 
figures, clear-cut, solitary, refusing to be 
forgotten. Or he may take his point of 
view so near that the battle can no longer 
be seen, because of the fighting, men jest- 
ing and cursing, and groaning and dying 
— and everywhere bullets spitting up lit- 
tle clouds of dust — ^and then we have a 
prose epic such as La Debacle. The 
whole question is one of temperament, 
and fortunate is the author who can judge 
correctly of his own powers, the right 
angle of distance, the precise length of 
stride, so to speak, best suited not only to 
his theme but to himself. 

In the whole range of contemporary 
fiction, it would be difficult to find a better 
example of how largely the length of a 
story is dependent upon this question of 
individual temperament, than is fur- 
nished by Joseph Conrad, a writer second 
only to Rudyard Kipling in his sheer 
mastery of forceful English and virile au- 
dacity of style, second to none in unique, 
exotic flavour and oftentimes grotesque 
tragedy of his themes. Yet in everything 
he has written, Mr. Conrad has set his 
own pace, fallen into his own particular 
stride, so to speak, ignoring all prece- 
dents regarding any sort of relation be- 
tween subject and space, crumpling up a 
world-wide theme into the limits of a few 
pages, stretching out some transitory in- 
cident into the bulk of a portly volume — 
and yet the very last thing which any 
critic has thought of questioning is, 
whether his stories are any of them too 
long or too short. Take for instance, his 
Nigger of the Narcissus — one of the 
many English stories whose titles have 
suffered an unfortunate sea change dur- 
ing their passage into an American edi- 
tion. Let any other writer submit a 
synopsis of the plot to his publisher, and 
if that publisher knows his business he 
will tell the author frankly that there is 
barely enough plot in it for a Saturday 
supplement, to say nothing of a book. 
Yet Mr. Conrad wove out of it a magic 
volume, full of the life and breadth and 



infinite variety of the sea ; and in the cen- 
tre of the picture the inert figure of a 
sickly, malingering negro stands out, as 
clear-cut as a carved ebony idol against a 
background of ivory, mysterious, omi- 
nous, the embodiment of fate. Or again, 
take The Heart of Blackness, one of the 
shortest stories that Mr. Conrad has 
written, and at the same time containing 
the biggest, most suggestive of all his 
themes. It is nothing less than a pre- 
sentment of the clashing of two conti- 
nents, a symbolic picture of the inborn 
antagonism of two races, the white and 
the black. It pictures the subtle disinte- 
gration of the white man's moral stamina, 
under the stress of the darkness, the iso- 
lation, the promiscuity of the African 
jungle, the loss of dignity and courage 
and self-respect through daily contact 
with the native man and the native 
woman. The whole thing is a matter of 
a few score pages, and yet such is its 
strength, coupled with a certain indes- 
cribable trick of verbal foreshortening, 
that it gives the impression of measure- 
less time and distance. We feel that we 
have spent years in his company, roam- 
ing through the murky atmosphere of 
physical and moral darkness — and still 
beyond stretch unexplored vistas, meas- 
ureless, forbidding, unspeakable. Mr. 
Conrad's new volume, which has served 
as an excuse for this digression upon 
what the present writer regards as his 
most remarkable contribution to fiction, is 
a collection of three tales neither long nor 
short, which represent the author's mid- 
dle distance, so to speak, and take their 
title from the first of the three, Folk. 
They have nothing like the power of his 
last year's volume, yet they all bear the 
stamp of his characteristic and rather 
grim queemess. To-morrow, for in- 
stance, pictures a father who has disin- 
herited his son, driven him from home 
and later repented of his act. Through 
long, lonely years he has comforted him- 
self with the belief that the son will some 
time, return, perhaps to-morrow — ^and he 
has brooded upon this hope until it has 
become a fixed idea, an obsession, that 
the son will come to-morrow. At last 
the son does come, but since things in 
this material, work-a-day world neces- 
sarily happen in the present and not in the 
future, the father's clouded brain refuses 
to recognise him, because he has come 

to-day, when he should have come to- 
morrow — the morrow which must always 
remain in the future. Equally simple in 
structure is Amy Foster, the story of a 
mute, inglorious tragedy. It pictures the 
fate of a young Slavonic emigrant, driven 
together with hundreds of his kind on 
board an ocean liner, to toss for days in 
a watery prison, and then be cast by night 
upon the English coast, the sole survivor 
of a whole ship's company. Ignorant of 
his whereabouts, speaking an outlandish 
tongue, hounded, penniless and hungry, 
from door to door, a terror to women and 
children, who think him a madman, he 
dies at last in destitution, like a homeless 
dog, having awakened a passing com- 
passion in just one heart, that of the Amy 
Foster of the title. But the finest story in 
the collection is that of Falk. On the 
surface it gives promise of pure comedy 
— a grotesque wooing of a Dutch g^rl, 
phlegmatic, florid and opulent of phy- 
sique, by a thin, taciturn Scandinavian 
pilot, on board her uncle's vessel, in the 
harbour of a Chinese river port. But 
Falk is a man haunted by the memory of 
a revolting deed ; he shows it in his face, 
sombre, taciturn, sinister, and in his man- 
ner, his trick of periodically covering his 
features with both hands, and then draw- 
ing them downwards with a slow, shud- 
dering movement, as though to wipe 
away the vision of a waking nightmare. 
The truth is, that once under the dire dis- 
tress of shipwreck and starvation it had 
become evident that human flesh alone 
stood between a whole ship's crew and 
death. In the face of this horror they 
had not drawn lots, they had fallen upon 
each other like wild beasts, and Falk, in 
whom the lust of life was strongest, had 
been the sole survivor. For six years 
this memory has haunted him ; and now 
his suflFering is doubled, because he has 
at last found a woman "generous of form, 
Olympian and simple, indeed the syren to 
fascinate the dark navigator" that he is, 
and he is confronted by the question, can 
any woman knowingly wed a man who 
has been guilty of cannibalism ? 

If Mr. Conrad is an example of an au- 
thor who always knows his own distance, 
and gauges his stride accordingly, the late 
Frank Norris is a good example of an 
author who lacked that knowledge, Mr. 
Norris took himself and his work with 
great seriousness ; his vds:^ vcv.^tfficsKscw^'^^ 



a lofty one, and he was steadily, persist- 
ently, indomitably, working towards it — 
indeed, in the opinion of many of those 
who best know his work, he had already 
crossed the threshold of achievement. 
Yet, whatever place is ultimately assigned 
him in the history of American letters, 
this at least is sure — that he was first and 
last an artist who depended upon bold 
lines and sweeping brush strokes, and 
that he could not be true to himself if 
hampered by a narrow canvas. To look 
to Frank Norris for short stories is^as 
incongruous as to set a Rodin to carving 
cherry pits, or a Verestchagin to tinting 
lantern slides. Yet it does not follow 
that the recently published collection en- 
titled A Deal in Wheat were not worth 
preservation. On the contrary, they are 
full of the keenest interest to all students 
of contemporary letters. No one but 
Norris could have written them; every 
page breathes forth the uncrushab^ vital- 
ity of the man. But to call them sKort 
stories is to misname them. They im- 
press one as fragments, rather splendid 
fragments too, trials of the author's 
strength, before he launched forth upon a 
really serious work. Take, for instance, 
the opening story, which gives the title 
to the volume. It was palpably written for 
practice, a sort of five-finger exercise in 
preparation for Mr. Norris's last volume. 
The Pit — and from this point of view it 
is brimful of interest. But taken as a 
story, it is at once too long and too short. 
Mr. Norris attempted in it to cover alto- 
gether too much ground ; he might with 
advantage have stopped some pages 
sooner than he did — and yet, at the end 
there remains a sense of incompleteness. 
In the whole collection, there is just one 
story that stands out, unique and force- 
ful — "A Memorandum of Sudden Death" 
— and in this the effect is achieved at the 
expense of probability. It is a good illus- 
tration of the length to which his occa- 
sional accesses of riotous romanticism 
would carry the author of Moran of the 
Lady Letty, This "memorandum" is a 
fragment of a journal supposed to be 
written by a wounded soldier, one of a 
small band of troopers who have been 
surrounded and followed, day after day, 
by a band of hostile Indians, through 
desolate miles of sand and sage, until the 
final attack is made. Granting that a 
United States trooper, with one or two 

bullets in him, and his comrades lying 
dead and dying around him, could go on 
recording passing events with the ac- 
curacy, the minuteness, the astonishing 
atmosphere, of this story, one must ad- 
mit that this is Mr. Norris's nearest ap- 
proach to the artistic unity of an ideal 
short story. 

A good example of how much may be 
done with a modest one or two talents is 
afforded by Elia W. Peattie's unpreten- 
tious little volume. The Edge of Things. 
The author is in no sense a long-distance 
writer; she is best at ease in the simple, 
short story — and she knows it. And so, 
in undertaking a more sustained effort, 
she has franklv adopted the short story 
form, developing her plot through a se- 
ries of more or less connected pictures, 
each complete in itself, yet each forming 
an essential part of the whole. Her style 
is simple, too; she is not prodigal of 
words and phrases ; and yet it is a ques- 
tion whether even Norris has pictured 
with more compelling power the desola- 
tion of the Southwestern desert lands, 
and the morbid influence they have upon 
men who try to live too long in these re- 
gions which are literally the "edge of 
things." The central theme is not with- 
out interest, it concerns a young fellow 
from the East, who goes out there full of 
brave plans for building up a golden for- 
tune from his sheep tanch. And then, 
after a time, luck goes against him, and 
his sheep die, and his funds run low, and 
the horror of the desert seizes him, and he 
thinks he is going mad, like many an- 
other poor fellow whose fate he hears of. 
But from this he is saved by a simple air- 
castle that he weaves during his hours of . 
loneliness. In the old adobe house, to 
which he has temporarily fallen heir, he 
finds a woman's glove; and later, 
scratched on the wall, a verse in a 
woman's writing. And from these trifles 
he reconstructs a personality, and fills the 
place with the companionship of an imagi- 
nary form and face. And for the sake of 
rounding out the story, the girl whom he 
has constructed in his day-dreams turns 
out to be a real person after all. But the 
value of the book is not in the story, bitt 
in the atmosphere, the wonderful sense 
that you have of loneliness and isolation 
and endless monotony. 

Another book which is worth mention- 
ing here quite briefly, even at the risk of 



seeming to attach to it more importance 
than it deserves, is Tomorrow's Tangle, 
by Geraldine Bonner. Of the story there 
is not much to be said; there are 
many better and many worse, appearing 
every month. But it has a prologue 
which deserves to be cited when any men- 
tion is made of the Arizona Desert in fic- 
tion. One does not soon forget the pic- 
ture of the endless waste of desolate 
lands, the one emigrant wagon, a typical 
"prairie schooner," crawling painfully 
along the trail, the horses almost spent; 
and beneath the canvas cover of that tent, 
the twofold mystery of life and death 
being enacted — a year-old child gasping 
out its last breath almost at the same mo- 
ment that its new-born sister's first cry 
strikes the air. As to the further details, 
how the Mormon husband sells his new- 
born child and its ailing mother to a kind- 
hearted, shiftless miner — this was all in 
the early days of the California gold 
fever — how the miner fell in love with 
the woman, who passed for his wife as 
long as they both lived, and how the 
daughter, grown to womanhood, is be- 
friended by the man who unknown to her 
is her own father — all this leads up to the 
series of tangles indicated in the title. 
And this is precisely the part of the book 
which will be forgotten long before the 
memory of that grim opening chapter has 
begun to fade. 

When Charles Marriott's first novel, 
The Column, appeared, it was a question 
in the minds of conservative readers 
whether he was not on the whole rather 
overrated ; and his subsequent work has 
tended to strengthen that impression. 
Yet it is not easy to point out, oflF-hand, 
just why a book like The House on the 
Sand falls short of what might reason- 
ably be expected of its author. It is a curi- 
ous and morbid study of an experiment 
in platonic affection. Or rather, that is 
what the reader is led to expect it to be. 
When you have finished it, however, and 
stop to think it over, you realise how very 
far away you have been led from the 
starting-point Here are a man and 
woman, both nurtured upon inflamma- 
tory socialistic literature, and drawn to- 
gether by theif common contempt for 
worldly conventions, but otherwise a 
strangely ill-assorted pair. Christopher 
Lanyon is a woman-hater, an egoist who 
"by carefully shunnine female society 

had achieved a condemnatory theory of 
womankind, consistent because based 
upon and corroborated by profound 
ignorance of the sex." Audrey Thurs- 
ton, at the age of twenty, was **a large- 
eyed, black-haired, lanky, and flat-chested 
girl, mentally and physically hungry, less 
a woman than an eager brain and an 
underfed and overgrown body." These 
two, the immature woman, the ascetic 
man, finding that their ideas of life, their 
scorn of sentiment and love and sex, har- 
monised admirably, agreed to pass their 
lives together, on a strictly platonic basis, 
scorning even a formal marriage, and for 
a time they lived "in a fine moral glow, 
caused by friction with public opinion." 
But at the time when the story opens the 
moral glow has faded. Audrey has 
reached the point where she knows that 
the dream of a platonic intimacy is im- 
possible, that she is a woman, capable of 
giving a woman's love to the right man, 
when he comes, and that Lanyon is not 
that man. Lanyon, too, has changed, and 
the change is of a kind which, while not 
impossible, does violence to one's sense of 
probability. It is not the outgrowth of 
his recorded acts, it does not have the 
logical relation of cause and consequence, 
it seems to be a deliberate intervention of 
fate, out of pure malice, for the purpose 
of confusing the direct issue, the ques- 
tion of platonic affection. It does not 
follow that because an ascete, a dreamer, 
a votary of socialism, loses his interest in 
his fellow men and settles down, well- 
housed and well-fed, to a life of selfish 
comfort, that he will forthwith break 
down in intellect and end as a victim of 
erotic mania. But granting Mr. Mar- 
riott's right to lose sight of his main 
theme, and to follow out the exceptional 
rather than the normal case, there is no 
denying the haunting power of the pic- 
ture of their life together — the man with 
a morbid passion daily growing upon 
him, the girl learning daily to shrink from 
him, to evade him, to dread the crisis 
which the morrow may bring forth. In 
the midst of this morbid and untenable 
situation it happens that the right man 
does come into Audrey's life, and pre- 
cipitates the inevitable tragedy with 
which the book closes. There are many 
side issues in the story — politics, inter- 
national relations, and socialism; b^al ^ 
IS not tVv\s v^T\. oi ^'^ N<5v>asc«. -^C^^ 



haunts one afterwards, like an oppressive 
nightmare. It is rather the image of a 
helpless girl, lying at night sleepless and 
trembling, listening to uneasy steps pass- 
ing to and fro before her door, and 
realising her only protection is "the frail 
barrier of a madman's declining self- 

A Sequence in Hearts, the most am- 
bitious piece of fiction that Mary Moss 
has yet produced, is one of those books 
whidi a reviewer is apt to find rather 
exasperating, because of the evidence it 
gives that the author might have done 
something very much better. In the pres- 
ent instance, there is no question of the 
author's ability to delineate character, 
feminine character especially. The book 
is full of delicate half-tones, subtle dis- 
criminating touches, of the sort that Mr. 
Howells is fond of characterising as "lit- 
tle miracles of observation." Her dif- 
ferent personages stand out in clear re- 
lief, distinct and unmistakable ; and 
equally clear is the existing situation, the 
curious and intricate tangle of affections 
which she has chosen to study and 
straighten out. If the title and the story 
convey any lesson it is this : that if, in 
dealing the cards of the game of life, 
we could be sure that the hearts would 
always fall in well-assorted pairs, in- 
stead of awkward sequences of three or 
five or some other luckless odd number, 
many a heartache would be avoided, and 
many a matrimonial difference stop short 
of the divorce courts. The only serious 
trouble with Mary Moss's presentment of 
this lesson is that the story lacks form, 
it has too many loose ends. First, there 
is Violet Dunham, vain, and pretty, and 
artificial, a sort of potential Selma White, 

without the latter's invincible self-assur- 
ance. After a few weeks' acquaintance, 
she wins the love of Killian Orth, a man 
nearly a score of years her senior, and 
worthy of a better fate. Friends of them 
both would have been better pleased lad 
he chosen Marian Genge, the girl with a 
tragic face, who "plays Chopin to yoimg 
men in the dusk,' and is silently eating 
her heart out for Killian's sake. Then 
there is Archie Leighton, who is secretly 
pining away because he cannot win 
Marian, and is quite unconscious of the 
fact that he is the ideal of Violet Dun- 
ham's younger sister, Jane. One won- 
ders whether Jane in her turn is not the 
object of some hopeless passion, the ideal 
of some man so wrapped up in his own 
woes that he never once guesses that he 
himself is loved by some fair unknown, 
and so on, ad infinitum. The whole sit- 
uation reminds one of nothing so much as 
a row of bricks, all ready to tumble down 
in succession, at the least sudden move- 
ment, the first indiscreet whisper. Of 
course such situations do exist in real 
life; and Miss Moss has depicted the 
present one with genuine skill. But 
when it comes to straightening out such 
a tangle, there is so little room for origi- 
nality. If men and women will persist in 
falling in love with the wrong persons, 
then they must go on being miserable, or 
else die, or else change their minds. There 
are no further alternatives. Mary Moss's 
characters do not die, and with one ex- 
ception they do not change their minds ; 
so it is fair to conclude that they go on 
being miserable, to the end of the chap- 
ter. And after all that is probably as 
true to life as any ending that she could 
have devised. 

Frederic Taber Cooper. 


ON the strength of his Ulysses 
alone Mr. Stephen Phillips 
would not rank high either as 
a poet or as a dramatist. De- 
duct what we owe to Homer, Vei^l, 
Dante, the stage manager and the sacred 
memories of our freshman year, and 
there remains only a fraction due to Mr. 
Phillips as creator. But the play is in 
harmony with the spirit of the master- 
pieces he has read and if his aim was to 
prove that high, familiar themes could be 
successfully treated in blank verse on the 
modem English stage, he has proved it. 
The lines are traditionally poetical and 
though from the very nature of the case 
there can be no dramatic interest in the 
plot there is curiosity as to what the au- 
thor will do with his material. It is 
stately, elemental, picturesque, and un- 
inspired, the sort of play that it is virtu- 
ous to write and virtuous also to enjoy. 
Gods and demigods are simple creatures 
with very few ideas and no nervous sys- 
tem, and it is creditable to our corrupt 
and complicated modern sense that we 
can like them in English blank verse. An 
ancient Greek hero treated in the classic 
manner has, as a stage person, an exceed- 
ingly narrow range of emotion and 
thought. Anything superhuman is gen- 
erally less than human on the stage, and 
on seeing this play we felt as homesick 
for the sight of a human being as Ulysses 
did for his "gaunt Ithaca." The finest 
passages, by the way, are precisely those 
m which Ulysses longed for earthly 
things, as if in that at least the author 
were at one with him. In the main the 
limits of the subject exclude our sjrm- 
pathy, and Mr. Phillips keeps within the 

"Hennes, this world 
Begins to grip my heart with gradiul cold I 
O how shall I descend in fleth and Mood 
Unready and unripe?" 

That is the way we feel about it. But 
there is poetical phrasing and some dra- 
matic skill, a rare partnership, and there 
is no other good mmor poet on our stage, 
or even poetoid, and Homer is a safe 
perch for any bard in pin feathers. Epi- 
sodes from a great epic, dramatically ar- 
ranged, told with dignity and accom- 
panied by some admirable tableaux of 
Hades and Olympus — it does not at all 
imply the resurrection of the English 
stage, but it is one of the few things that 
have a claim to be taken somewhat seri- 
ously. As produced in New York it suf- 
fered from the noisiness and restlessness 
of the caste who played it as if the aud- 
ience were a little deaf and very obtuse. 
Mr. Tyrone Power made an impressive 
but somewhat monotonous Ulysses, sigh- 
ing constantly in very deep bass, and the 
booms of his beautiful but polyphlces- 
bcean voice needed a little shading. It is 
a pity that so well-endowed an actor as 
he should not have learned the blessings 
of diversity. 

The reviews of The Man from Blank- 
ley's prepared one for a different sort of a 
play. The satire is not subtle but on the 
contrary very broad and obvious. It is 
satire of the thoroughly English and re- 
lentless sort, no stiletto work but the 
steady play of a good, big club. When 
reviewers like a thing they empty 
straightway all the pockets of their vo- 
cabulary, and in this case they implied 
a certain fineness and delicacy. The au- 
thor of Vice Versa and The Tinted Venus 
has other qualities just as good but these 
do not belong to him. As a picture of a 
vulgar middle class English family and 
the barbarities of their social life it is as 
true as Thackeray's Osbomes. It is more 
amusing than the satire of Dickens and 
the characters are far more plausible, 
but it has the Dickens quality of universal 
and immediate v^^ta.!. K^5wtT3:*&ci "co 



one in the audience missed a single point, 
and this was accomplished without strain- 
ing or over-emphasis, owing in large 
measure to the cleverness and good taste 
of Mr. Charles Hawtrey and his excel- 
lent company. 

We pass reluctantly to the needless 
horrors of Hedda Gabler, in which a 
woman without motives or reasons, rep- 
resenting no known temperament, class, 
condition or country, holds the centre of 
the stage for the purpose of showing one 
of the peculiar forms that criminal ab- 
normality might assume. It differs from 
the rest of Ibsen's plays in lacking any 
philosophic suggest iven ess and shows his 
great dramatic energy applied success- 
fully to the single object of making you 
squirm. Mrs. Fiske played it with all the 
unwomanliness she could muster, and 
made it inconceivable that the adoring 
husband and infatuated lover could re- 
main in her company two minutes. The 
author hardly meant that Hedda, hateful 
as she was, should be outwardly so for- 
bidding. Mrs. Fiske capped Ibsen's crim- 
inal with a shrew, speaking always in 
tart, snappy sentences, of which a third 
could be heard only on the stage, Mrs. 
Fiske and Mrs. Patrick Campbell are alike 
in their total indifference to the other 
persons of the play. Husbands, fathers, 
lovers, children are mere worms. Mrs. 
Campbell is too preoccupied even to 
glance at the object of her affection, and 
Mrs. Fiske's sharp rising inflection makes 
you feel in your pocket to see if you for- 
got to mail those letters. It is a mere 
mannerism but it often obscures the in- 
telligence of her acting and is a fruitful 
source of misunderstanding between her 
audience and herself. Hedda Gabler is a 
part that requires anything but tender- 
ness but it does not call for a continuous ■ 

tone of petty severity — a tone that might 
almost go with a box on the ear. 

In Her Own Way, Mr. Clyde Fitch 
adopts- the simple and ancient plan of 
sending the true lover off to the wars and 
leaving the wicked rival behind, then baf- 
fling the vi